She was saying good-bye to childhood and home, and her making; she was going out into the great, multitudinous world; this time there would be no returning. The entrance was barred against them; and they had the additional mortification of hearing Sheppard's loud laughter at their discomfiture. Then she would be dead, and that was no use. 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. Another day of nonsuccess would mean many disagreeable things. H’m.
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