It was a pity he didn't break his neck, for he was hanged within the year. 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. The carte de jour was before Monsieur. She tried to appear as if she had never been questioned before. The whole place had come to life, the magic seeped out of the walls. After that consolations fled.
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