That, Sir, is what I call being a Good Samaritan. Her nurse says she may live some time; but she seems to me to be sinking fast. 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. The doctor jumped to his feet. ‘What do you mean?’ ‘You have papers of identity, for the Mother Abbess told me so.
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