Should it e'er be my lot to ride backwards that way, At the door of the Crown I will certainly stay; I'll summon the landlord—I'll call for the Bowl, And drink a deep draught to the health of my soul! Whatever may hap, I'll taste of the tap, To keep up my spirits when brought to the crap! For nothing the transit to Tyburn beguiles So well as a draught from the Bowl of St. "Is it indeed you, or am I dreaming?" "You're not dreaming, mother," he answered. I did not reckon upon—him. I'll be at the Cross Shovels in the course of the day. ‘Ah, bah, it is enough,’ she cried, and turning, ran out of the room. Poor soul! she nearly died when she heard he had robbed his master; and it might have been well if she had done so, for she never afterwards recovered her reason.
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