Supposing the wire should break and her head tumble off her shoulders into the street? The whimsey caused another smile to ripple across her lips. E. 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. "Otherwise you will not get your morning's sleep. " The poor widow hung her head, and pressed her child closer to her breast.
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