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. Fly! they shall knock me on the head—curse 'em!—before they shall touch you. This won’t do. Wood, regarding her husband with a glance of vindictive triumph. There! You are trying to take your hand away. “These are the times that would make me glad to live forever, if only they lasted.
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