“You left the TV on when you fell asleep in the living room, so I turned it off. 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. “Really, I do not know why I should have doubted it. It was better even than the hymn-singing. ‘But this is not to my blame, grandpére. You have never known what it is to want food, raiment, shelter. ’ Then she frowned. Her heart failed her and her resolution became water. \" He said, as he threw his trash into the can on the way out.
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