" "I don't unterstand you," returned Mrs. “I heard the clock strike as I crossed the square,” she answered. I don’t think we’re altogether to blame if we don’t take some of your lot seriously. 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. "It won't do, widow," said he, drawing near her, while she shrank from his approach, "so you may spare your breath.
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