I admit it. 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. He swore when I tried to get it out with the ladle, and told me what it said. Nor can we. "All that you have been telling me, our old Kanaka cook summed up in a phrase. Here I am as an alternative either to nasty workâor going home. Wild.
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