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. Presently. “Child!” he cried. The sharp point of the sword at the girl’s throat bit sideways. And probably the girl would wear herself out, too. . I know of scandalous deeds which he has done. ‘Rather thought I’d have to disarm you when you heard of it. He pressed his lips to her with a much greater force than she had anticipated.
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