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. "'A wonderful fact to reflect upon, that every human creature is constituted to be that profound secret and mystery to every other. Still —there you are!” He paused. “Yes, I see that. ‘I thank you. A woman touched him lightly on the arm, and smiled into his face. " "How do you manage that, Mr. “Come with me. .
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