’ ‘Nothing of the sort,’ Gerald said calmly, sipping at his burgundy. Opening the door, he found it littered with straw, on which he threw himself, and instantly fell asleep. 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. " "That I'll engage not to do. The door was closed— locked,—and the pair were heard descending the stairs.
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