"She considers her future blasted beyond hope. The swelling in his limbs had also subsided. 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 lingered over donning her winter coat, buttoning each toggle and placket, double knotting her long scarf.
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