“But perhaps I want to confess them. Fool that I was to part with my lantern! But I'll soon set myself straight. ’ Looking round, she found the little coterie of soldiers crowded into the passage behind them. 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. Melusine’s eyes shifted. "Is this Misther Wudd's, my pretty miss?" demanded the rough voice of the Irish watchman.
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