Of all the entirely English women I know, you’re the only one with a French accent. It was comforting to have her there, snoring gently. 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. Unless he can arise from the bottom of the Thames, where he and his abhorred father lie buried, you will never behold him again in this world. But I mean to have them. ‘Not at all ladylike.
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