The procession had just got into line of march, when a dreadful groan, mixed with yells, hootings, and execrations, was heard. Alcohol— would you believe it?—steadies his nerves and keens his brain: which is against the laws of gravitation, you might say. 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. “Listen,” she said. Already the warm sun was drawing from the pines their delicious odour. 1. "Spring!—I never knew any.
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