It could not go on much longer, her luck. 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. . She could tell it was new territory for him and he might lose the nerve to take them off himself, without the aid of drink. “I suppose all life is an affair of chances. .
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