Bravo!—the best cly-faker of 'em all couldn't have done it better. She could not see clearly. 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. He begged their attention for the next turn. " A smile broke the set of Ah Cum's lips. " "Conscious; well, that's good news. Natives are queer.
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