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. She had a political cartoon from 1785 that showed a tall man in a cape, a caricature of a French politico that looked suspiciously like him. Montague Hill. "I leave this bowl for you," he cried, returning it to the landlord untasted.
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