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 you must forgive me, John. That I should be challenged by you of all people. "So you did," replied the prize-fighter. ‘Well, she’d better learn fast if she wants any truck with me. Rage flooded her at his intent, but she controlled it. Only Gwen left a letter on the pincushion.
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