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. 47 was no more than a sort of railway compartment on the way to that. Why ever did you let me get into that wagonette?” “I thought we had to,” said Ann Veronica, who had also been a little under the compulsion of the marshals of the occasion. Annabel, I cannot believe it. “Mr.
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