Come. He glanced at his watch. You poor man, what have you been doing to yourself?” “Nothing except travelling all night,” he answered. "I'm surprised you've not asked that question before, Sir Rowland. 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. She always dawdled, so it was easy.
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