In Wych Street Owen Wood did dwell; A carpenter he was by trade, And money, I believe, he made. 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. “So Cheveney was her friend, you think, eh?” he remarked. “I like you very much John. A delicate flush of colour streamed into her cheeks. Part 3 Later they loitered along a winding path above the inn, and made love to one another.
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