’ She was silent for a space, and it was evident that this part of the story was still too painful to be recalled with ease. 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. When I've had an hour's rest, I'll be after Blueskin. Perhaps I may borrow yours one day?’ ‘Lucilla, you wretch,’ burst from the captain.
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