The sun was all but gone now, the horizon a deep shade of purple. 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. ToC Saint Giles's Round-house was an old detached fabric, standing in an angle of Kendrick Yard. “DEAR MR. We shall never have an heir, you and I! My family is crumbling; all of my brothers are dead.
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