The night had swallowed him up, but his work on her was done. He called to the other attendant, who held the torch. “Some day,” she answered. 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. Blueskin fought his way towards it, and exerting all his strength, cutting right and left as he proceeded, reached it at the same time.
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