The Storm. "Who's that queer cove in the full-bottomed wig?" "Attend to me, sirrah," rejoined Wild, sternly. . ‘It needs not that you tell me. They went to the gate and stopped there, gabbed with their men, and didn’t even dismount. Them young prigs is all alike. "Is she returned!" "Y—e—s, Sir Rowland," stammered Charcam. 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. "In Heaven's name! what's all this?" cried Wood. Sheppard wildly. It’s my other side of the moon. An immediate halt took place.
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