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. For ten years I've been trying to go home, but my conscience will not permit me, I hate the Orient. Strongly impregnated with the mingled odours of tobacco, ale, brandy, and other liquors, the atmosphere was almost stifling. “If I didn’t love you better than myself,” said Capes, “I wouldn’t fence like this with you. You are all that I am or hope to be—the celestial atom God put into me at the beginning.
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