"It was the story of a man, so to speak, who had left his vitals in his native land and wandered strange paths emptily. The whole incident was so unexpected that neither Courtlaw nor Brendon were awaiting. "I don't know his name. 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. ‘This journey I do not like,’ she said more loudly.
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