‘Jacques! This—this bête he attacks me, and you stand there and you do nothing. You want to think for a time, to be free for a time. Each time that we meet I try to kill you. 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. He smiled. "It is easy to make an assertion like this," said Thames, contemptuously. It could not be a legal marriage.
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This video was uploaded to waterscolumns.info on 17-09-2024 21:52:30
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