As Jack departed, a dark figure, emerging from behind a wall, rushed after him. She glanced towards her sister, and curiously enough found in her face some faint reflection of her own rather sombre mirth. A hazy face appeared through the fog of sleep, pale and thin and looming. 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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This video was uploaded to bbdy.space on 09-07-2024 23:46:35
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