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. As soon as the latter beheld him, she uttered a loud scream, and fainted. " A prophecy which was to be fulfilled in a singular way. He could not promise that she would ever appear again in that house. I’ll buzz him for you. " "To be sure you are," replied Jonathan, laughing. Very well. "He was thrown overboard, and perished at sea.
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