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. Part 3 Later they loitered along a winding path above the inn, and made love to one another. Running his hand hastily over it, he was startled to find it one complicated mass of bolts and bars. ” “We’ve come past it, miss,” the man answered, with a note of finality in his gruff voice. .
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