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. Kneebone is coming, my dear," ventured Mr. I will confide it to Father Spencer, who will acquaint you with it when I am no more. The evening breeze came; the bamboo shades on the veranda clicked and rasped; the loose edges of the manuscript curled. “You heard no pistol-shot?” “None. He walked hastily to the side of the broad pavement and summoned a fiacre.
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