“Annabel!” she exclaimed. 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. When Ann Veronica got it she had at first a wild, fantastic idea that it contained a tip. I tell you what, Mr. He might spend the rest of his days at McClintock's in perfect security. Besides those whom I've slain with my own hands, I've brought upwards of thirty persons to the gallows. Men are always doing it, and if you set up to be a man—” “No, it’s absolutely out of the question, Mr.
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