” Annabel laughed gaily. The ladder was now within reach. He was so depressed and disheartened that he did not then believe he would ever write again. 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. He's a Welshman, and I wouldn't for a trifle that any accident befel him.
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