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But they were too late. It was ended. Wood's daughter,—to whom, I've heard tell, he was attached years ago,—was brought up, his courage forsook him altogether, and he trembled, and could scarcely stand. 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. It was a serene and charming evening, and twilight was gently stealing over the face of the country. “I would marry your sister anyhow, under any circumstances,” he answered. Yet you catch her eye—you can’t seem to escape from it. But it was now too late to turn back, and, nerving himself for the shock he expected to encounter, he ventured after his conductor.
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