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. “I do not even know who you are. Then to the Golden Ball, in the same street. He knocked at the door. Let this be a caution to you in future—with whom, and about what you deal. Fell to sin, did Martha. ‘What in Hades d’ye mean, thanks to me? Want to blame anyone, blame that rapscallion who calls himself your father. “You silly fool,” he said. But this was long ago.
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This video was uploaded to thenextfuture.net on 20-09-2024 20:03:54
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