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. But apart from that, you have no particular objection to him, I suppose?” “The occurrence of last night is quite sufficient in itself,” Sir John answered, “to make me wish to discontinue Mr. About nine o'clock, an immense mob collected before the Lodge at Newgate. ” “Fine.
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