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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. gutenberg. She went to the table under the end window at which she had been accustomed to work, and found it swept and garnished with full bottles of re-agents. And so Misther Wudd lives near the Black Lion, eh?" "He does," replied Thames. Wood; but they never come now.
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