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. At that, the girl jumped up. Kneebone begged him to take the prisoner into the churchyard. She dropped on her knees by his side, and gently unbuttoned his waistcoat. She almost laughed, but repressed her smile lest it seem cruel.
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