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. ‘You must have been an exceedingly good pupil. " "No doubt, my dear," acquiesced the carpenter, "no doubt. He saw the colossal selfishness of his act; but he could not beg off on the plea of abnormality. Bodies! Bodies! Horrible things! We are souls. The whole neighbourhood was disturbed. Sheppard.
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