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. "So she got away as far as this, eh? But where does she come in?" The doctor recounted that side of the tale. With this view, he descended the hill and presently found a footpath leading to the church. ” “We are,” said Ann Veronica. ” He was dismissed, and he understood it. .
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