By the time she arrived at the Beck’s doorstep, the morning was risen. 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. Then Valade—was the man as big a fool as Nicholas?—tried again. I'll write an opera the scene of which shall be laid altogether in Newgate, and the principal character shall be a highmaywan.
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