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. ” He handed her the phone reluctantly, barely masking his mild disgust. Building announced solemnly. "My horse is at the door, saddled, with pistols in the holsters,—mount him and fly. ” Pause.
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