There MULSACK and SWIFTNECK, both prigs from their birth, OLD MOB and TOM COX took their last draught on earth: There RANDAL, and SHORTER, and WHITNEY pulled up, And jolly JACK JOYCE drank his finishing cup! For a can of ale calms, A highwayman's qualms, And makes him sing blithely his dolorous psalms And nothing the transit to Tyburn beguiles So well as a draught from the Bowl of Saint Giles! "Singing's dry work," observed the stranger, pausing to take a pull at the bottle. She recovered herself, however, with amazing facility. “I’ll go. Her life hangs upon a thread, and this may snap it. He sat back in an easy chair with a hand upon each of the elbows, and looked steadfastly into the fire. Nothing that I desire to remember," replied Sheppard, sternly.
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