“I am exceedingly sorry,” he said. “Oh, dammit!” he remarked, “dammit!” with great bitterness as he faced it. 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. In a second the glass lay shattered upon the carpet. At a sign from Ah Cum, official custodian of the sightseers, the polechair coolies pressed toward the left and halted. On one side of the handbill a print of the reigning sovereign, Anne, had been pinned over the portrait of William the Third, whose aquiline nose, keen eyes, and luxuriant wig, were just visible above the diadem of the queen.
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