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. “While that lamb was about every man of any spirit was regarded as a dangerous wolf. Spurlock sat limply, his arms hanging. “Okay. "By G—! she has missed her footing. She let him have it all, as it was, after all, for the last time. .
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