I try to execute people with records, bad men, child molesters, criminals, lowlifes. 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. "Impossible!" exclaimed the widow, wildly. " "I'm convinced of it," replied Shotbolt; "and it was on that very account I came here. He just walked in a few minutes ago. For what indeed does she do? A simple song, no gesture, no acting, nothing. "I haven't offended you?"—not contritely but curiously.
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