The fibre of his soul had to be tested, queerly, to make him worthy of you. “Where is my beautiful wife?” He bellowed from the downstairs. Previously to his descent he had left the nail and spike on the wall, and with these he fastened the blanket to the stone coping. 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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