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. I am sorry that I do not know any one in London. “Please play something for us,” Carol asked, her eyes aglow. ‘Who me, sir? Lor’ no, sir. Wood did think of it, and groaned aloud. ‘s as mad as any of you, in spite of all his respectability; not a bit of him straight anywhere, not one bit.
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