"Damnation!" cried Kneebone. ’ ‘I am afraid that there is,’ Gerald told her evenly. "Raise your vice, and lave off coughin'," added Terence. But we were both pledged to secrecy, and I couldn’t reveal my part for fear that I would lose my place. 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.
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