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. She did not question or analyze the craving; she took the plunge joyously. Your second turn is not over, is it?” She laughed a little hardly. She arrived about nine o’clock the next evening in a state of tremulous enthusiasm. Occasionally the flames would bend, twist and writhe crazily as the punka-boy bestirred himself. “I daresay the gallery will be full, but there is always the chance, and I know you two are keen on Melba.
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