The thought of you, wandering from pillar to post, believing yourself hunted—it tore my old heart to pieces! For I knew you. 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. A sob was strangled in her throat. Thames Street was wholly impassable. ” He said. ” “I am glad that you have a reasonable excuse for not having been to see me,” she said good-humouredly.
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