Classic Poem

A year so thirsty ne'er was known,
My throat's as parched as any bone,
My liver dried away;
I seem a fish on driest sand,
I seem a tract of sunburnt land;
A draught of wine, I pray!

How dry is every passing gale!
Nor rain, nor mist, nor dews avail,
All drinks my anguish mock;
Deep draughts I drink, and drink again,
Yet down my throat they're poured in vain
As 'twere a heated rock.

What star now reigns, so hot, so fierce?
Its heat doth e'en my marrow pierce
And pains me to the core.
My friends must think I pine with love,
And sooth, who gives me drink shall prove
Beloved for evermore!

All ye that suffer thus with me,
Pray oft that wine may plenteous be,
All ye whom drinking stays;
Saint Urban, justify our trust,
Grant us this year much precious must,
That we may hymn thy praise!