It must be my fault that you have not learnt that your husband is the man to come to—at such a time as this. "Without proper medical care, he would have been dead by morning. 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. "Has any one been here?" he asked. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.
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