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. “Don’t think that I have been playing the spy upon you,” he continued. " "Why, surely you can't be in earnest, Captain. The inn was a military haunt. Drummond,” he continued, looking across at his vis-à-vis, “we look to you to give expression to our sentiments. So now I will say nothing more to you, and you will please to say nothing more to me, for I do not reply.
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