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. ‘That,’ he said stonily, ‘is yet another point over which we fell out. Anna turned round with a start, which was almost of guilt, the poker still in her hand. “I’ll come to the station,” said Ann Veronica. " She kindled with sympathy. This was irregular. “I may as well come up by this train.
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