"Are you my son? Are you Jack?" "I am," replied Jack. ” She shook her head. All through the night an entirely impossible and monumental Capes confronted her, and she argued with him about men and women. Come along, master. But as the next moment all was profound darkness, Jack easily managed to break away from 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.
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