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. Annabel is my only sister, you know, almost my only relative. The blow had brought him back to the realm of sober thought. But apart from that, you have no particular objection to him, I suppose?” “The occurrence of last night is quite sufficient in itself,” Sir John answered, “to make me wish to discontinue Mr.
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