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. “Was it terrible for you after he died?” “Don’t worry yourself about it John. " "Back, villain!" said the knight, haughtily. “It is a delightful day for walking, but a great deal too cold to be standing on the pavement. She hesitated. Jack Kimble.
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