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. “And as for praying for faith—this sort of monologue is about as near as any one of my sort ever gets to prayer. "Well, I'm not far from the mark. I’m sorry. Will you leave us for a few minutes?" "You are not going to be harsh?" "I wish to talk about the future.
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