“Mr. She leaned back in the cab with half-closed eyes. If you met her you would, I am certain, think her as fine as I do. 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. " "Poh, poh, my dear! Mr. " "Then this is not my child?" exclaimed she, with increased astonishment.
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