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. I have gone without dinner for three nights, and—come in. The mighty concourse became for a moment still. EPOCH THE FIRST, 1703. ” Drummond looked up with mock eagerness. ‘So it was. There’s something— something ADULT about you. " "Wear that to-night, then. .
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