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 knight and his followers crossed the threshold, leaving one of the torch-bearers behind them. There followed a silence which endured several minutes; or, rather a tableau. But what the deuce! He was human; he was a machine only when on the hunt. She had not seen him in two and a half centuries. " "Be pleased, then, in future not to let your surprise find vent in words," rejoined Jonathan, sternly.
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