The weather's been foul enough for the last fortnight, but I've never turned my back upon it. ‘You will like to marry me, yes?’ she pursued. 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. I thought one had only to take it by the throat. .
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