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. Not even, it seemed, this interfering monsieur le major. Part of his head was swathed in linen bandages. " "God help me, what a muddle!" The cigar crumbled in Spurlock's hand. But now that this bar is removed, I trust I may, without impropriety, urge it. Why should you who are queens come down from your thrones? If you can afford it, WE can’t.
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