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. ’ ‘How can it be in dispute?’ frowned Mrs Sindlesham. "Forgive me—oh, forgive me!" "Forgive you—bless you!" she gasped. He did not want Ruth to see his own stricken countenance; nor did he care to see hers, ravaged by tears. " "Take time to consider of it," replied Wood sulkily, "there's no hurry.
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