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. Sebastian sat smirking in amusement. They are blinded to all fine and subtle things —they look at life with bloodshot eyes and dilated nostrils. “Thank Heaven, they are bringing the hors d’oeuvres. I shall lose my fees and the laced coat.
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