“Steady on!” he cried. ’ Then she came closer and put her hand on his chest so that it rested on the braid that decorated his scarlet coat. 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. ’ ‘But I have told you I have not another dagger, even a little one. "May come!—it will come!—it shall come!" cried the carpenter, shaking his hand menacingly at him. The procession had just got into line of march, when a dreadful groan, mixed with yells, hootings, and execrations, was heard.
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