Wait, though. But, be like a son to her. 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. " "And, if you want an additional inducement to do so, I can tell you there's no one —not even his mother—whom he loves so well as you. Looked like them statues of the Holy Mother I see about the place. Still, his conscience was partly satisfied. Try and let him never regret it. “Oh, please. I want to make you feel that here is a place where the crowd does not clamor nor ill-winds blow.
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