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. ’ ‘But it is imbecile,’ interrupted Melusine, struck by the impracticalities of her father’s scheme. Clean water. His horse, which had apparently gone to sleep, preferred to remain where he was.
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