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. He thought rationally; that is to say, he thought clearly, as a child thinks clearly. The audience clapped more heartily. Sc. "Ever play one of these machines?" "Yes. "I advised him not to trouble you farther about Jack Sheppard," answered the supposed janizary.
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