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. Mrs. Not fit to be dust on your boots. I asked several shopkeepers the same question: ‘Do you know the blue-eyed maid with the curly brown hair? She has a mother who is fair with the same eyes. She clenched her hands together and leaned forward in her chair, gazing steadily into the fire.
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