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. She gazed steadily out of the window at that arc of glittering lights. “Not at all. . For Ruth grew lovelier as the days went on. He had abandoned his oars, and the boat was drifting with the stream towards the enemy. ” He scarcely saw her face again.
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