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. ” “Straight?” “Not a bit of it! He’s been out after eight per cent. ” “You should try out for the town orchestra. Apparently I’m not to exist yet. ‘How do you do? I am so happy to meet you. During the foregoing occurrences a dead calm prevailed.
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