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. " "I've had the hard work to do, at all events," rejoined Jack, "But I won't complain. Now, more and more, we’re going to be interested in them, to be curious about them and—quite mildly-experimental with them. " "Except me, dear," insinuated Edgeworth Bess. Jack had got into one of the pens at the north side of the chapel. Charvill’s command of French was enough to tell him that, for its entire content was devoted to commending Nicholas Charvill’s fourteen year old daughter into the care of the Abbess.
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