And while her son was reconveyed to prison the body of the unfortunate Mrs. 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. The procession had just got into line of march, when a dreadful groan, mixed with yells, hootings, and execrations, was heard. The same look she had often seen in the eyes of the drunken beachcombers her father had brought home, and it had not filled her with horror. It came with an extreme effect of re-discovery, a remarkable novelty. ‘Ah, non,’ exclaimed the husband.
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