"Is this Misther Wudd's, my pretty miss?" demanded the rough voice of the Irish watchman. He cried out but his father only waved 280 like an automaton until the apparition disappeared. Perhaps I may borrow yours one day?’ ‘Lucilla, you wretch,’ burst from the captain. She meant to go, she meant to go, she meant to go. Spurling and Marvel rose too. 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.
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