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. He returned, blue towel in hand. It was the sing-song girl idea, magnified many diameters. But on this matter my mind is quite made up. He was safe, out of the beaten track, at last really comparable to the needle in the haystack.
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