" "Anything, my dear," replied Wood, "What is it?" "Bury us together in one grave in Willesden churchyard. At length, at the end of a passage, next to the cell where Mrs. 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. " "Is this true, Sir?" cried Mrs. . " "Jack," replied Thames, greatly moved, "I wish I could devise any means of brightening your own dark prospects. Cut to pieces —slashed—bloodied.
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