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. These cogitations were interrupted by the entrance of the doctor. ” He took an optimist view of her chances. She stopped abruptly at the sound of his voice, and lost the thread of what she was saying. The fellow is little better than a lunatic. She speedily reached her own abode,—a little cottage, standing in the outskirts of the village.
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