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 kindled with sympathy. You make yourself charming for help. She knew, or guessed his mission too, for more than once their eyes met, and she laughed mockingly at him. Find out what I have done or failed to do. " "Rely on me," rejoined Kneebone.
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