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. "Defend yourself!" cried Jack, drawing his sword. "Remember!" cried Quilt, as he forced the captive along. So says your capitaine. In the mean time, let me advise you as a friend not to irritate him by a refusal, which would be as useless as vexatious.
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