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. "No," answered Jack, approaching her, "though, if I had done so, he would have merited his fate. With a little more meat on him, he would be handsome. But machinery will never approach the hand. "' Instead of regarding him, Jack glanced over the iron bannisters, and measured the distance. They looked out over the city, grim and silent now, for it was long past midnight.
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