He took his tea-can from the heap
Of hot ash by the furnace-door,
And raised it to his lips; but ere
The kindly stream began to pour
Down his dry throat, he reeled and sank,
A hapless corpse, on the clay floor.

Without a word, his mates stooped down,
And tried to rouse him, wonderingly,
Though he was far beyond their help,
As, all too plainly, they could see:
And naught they found to say but this—
By God, he's wasted all his tea!