"I can," replied Trenchard. " "Mrs. 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. It is easy enough to sing these little chansons in an original way—it requires a very different sort of ability to succeed on the stage. I believe I am doomed to be an old maid.
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