The looming face was 71 over her own once again, and arms as strong as iron bars held her down. 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. She tiptoed to the stand and gathered up the manuscripts which she carried to a chair by the window.
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