“I have the right of the man who loves you,” he declared. But we’ve got the brains to get over that, and tongues in our heads to talk to each other. 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’m not half smart enough for the West End.
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