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. "I am one. It had her raven locks, her pouting lips. \"You look great!\" \"Thanks. "He left Dollis Hill at ten o'clock on that night, and has not since returned. "Farewell for ever," said Jack, extending his hand to Mrs. I didn’t know he had Italian relatives.
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