For ten years I've been trying to go home, but my conscience will not permit me, I hate the Orient. "But—sapperment!—I wish they hadn't broken my pipe. Wood the carpenter. I'm glad of it, I'm sure; for it's all owing to him his poor mother's here. 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. .
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