Though there is something to be said for your idea of a secret convent, at least as a hiding place. ‘I am not French in the least, bête. 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. "—An answer for which he was immediately reprimanded by the court. Without whisky," went on McClintock, "your irritability is beyond tolerance.
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