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. Many’s the young ’un I’ve seen get hisself into just such a knuckleheaded mess all on account of a pretty wench. I will pray for you. " "Zounds! David Pugh, don't you know your old friend and countryman?" exclaimed the carpenter.
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