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. The chromatic fiction with which he relieved his mind glanced but slightly at this aspect of life, and never with any quality of guidance. “How gratified she must have been! If only I had known I would have made an effort to get home in time for dinner. She leaned over and kissed his cheek innocently. You made that thing?” “From a kit.
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