"My friends need not fear my return. “There is my aunt,” she said. “Every one. 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. "What's that?—Jack's voice!" "It is," replied her son. Out of all this we have struck a sort of harmony. Could you give me any references?” “There is Mr. “She found my collection of witchcraft books under my bed and threw them away.
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