" "Mr. "I can't," answered Blueskin. 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. Youth finds it pleasant sometimes to be melancholy. “You be off, missie,” said the fatherly policeman. Pshaw!" added he, making an effort to subdue his emotion, "I can't leave you in this way. It probably had its own repulsive oubliette in the bottom, where tiny princesses could fall and break their necks.
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