“It’s about forty pounds. He nodded silently, too full for words. Jack's body was caught, and passed from hand to hand over a thousand heads, till it was far from the fatal tree. At last I tried a dramatic agent, and got on the music hall stage. 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.
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