"You'll never return. “And yet,” he said, “you bid me talk cheerfully, or not at all. 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. Mike dismissed her with a wave, and she left the room, knowing she could not say anything to please him she swiftly left the room.
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