There will be long stretches of idleness, heat, and enervation; and always the odour of drying coconut. 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 moment the brisk evening breeze caught the lank canvas and bellied it taut. Love and companionship. Blueskin goes with me.
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