" The clock tinkled ten. By many a highwayman many a draught Of nutty-brown ale at Saint Giles's was quaft, Until the old lazar-house chanced to fall down, And the broad-bottom'd bowl was removed to the Crown. ‘I’ve eyes in my head, haven’t I?’ He grunted. In the present instance she did not want any interference; she did not want the doctor's wisdom to edge in between these two young fools and spoil the drama. She came to befriend the female mistresses, some who were even so audacious as to bring their children into the house. Now drop it. 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. “Oh my God! You sounded like my Grandma just now! How did you do that?” He asked, shocked. Fortescue raised his eyebrows and assumed a light-comedy expression.
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This video was uploaded to waterscolumns.info on 20-09-2024 11:09:06
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