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. No doubt— because he did not understand you—he thought you had run away with someone. “And to-night we are friends?” “We are friends,” said Ann Veronica, and drew her hand quickly away from him. "It is not too late to repair the wrong I have done my nephew," cried Trenchard. “And now tell me, please, how you eloped from Morningside Park.
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