"Is it by lettin' you go, my darlin', that I'm to airn it?" inquired Terence. He stared at her stupidly, forgetting to guard against the tactics he had come to expect from her. He kept his keen eyes steadily fixed on Thames, as if awaiting to be addressed. 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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