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. Anna found herself next Sydney Courtlaw, with his friend close at hand. I don’t care if you never tell me any of your secrets. Hearl on HounslowHeath. I have slept with it under my pillow. He daren't quarrel with me: and if he does, let him look to himself.
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