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. I am entirely English, as you know well. "He will kill me," cried Thames. Yes, I can readily believe it. But, after all, what does that matter? He is very much taken with me. I am a single man, and——” “Thank you,” she interrupted. \" Cathy beamed.
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