‘She won’t. 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. “For me,” Manning went on, “this isn’t final. " "Oh, Jack!" cried his mother, falling upon his neck, and covering him with kisses. Fly! they shall knock me on the head—curse 'em!—before they shall touch you. You understand what I mean. Now, Sir.
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