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. Jack Sheppard is to me what Thames Darrell is to you—an object of hatred. She bathed frequently with ash and lye soap stolen from traders. Occasionally he relit his pipe.
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