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. The plank hung over his head. But be patient, I am your fast friend. ‘To take a baby all the way to France without a wet-nurse. Hist!’ he added, as he turned his head and noticed Alderley’s glance. Stanley, in his effort to seem at ease, took entire possession of the hearthrug.
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