“I think that it is only an idea. 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. “Your mother was a Gypsy. How many ends had he? Well, she must cease to trouble herself for this imbecile, whom it would give her very much pleasure to shoot.
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