"Ja, ja, Muntmeester," said the Hollander, shaking his head in reply;—"very bad —very. ” “I’ll wait, then. 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. His pulses beat fast as he walked, his feet fell lightly upon the pavement. She hesitated, and for a moment thought of omitting her second verse altogether. "Your detective has been remiss in his duty; let him suffer for it.
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