‘After all the threats you’ve made, that is hardly fair. “Hey sis!” He cried drunkenly. Leave me behind: I'm not afraid. 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. When you've admitted him, steal into the room, hide yourself, and don't move till I utter the words, 'You've a long journey before you.
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