There was a concerted gasp of shock from both the black-garbed lad and the coachman. Maggot. Indeed it was apparent, from the likeness between them, that they were nearly related. Close upon this came another thought. 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. Lady Trafford uttered a prolonged scream, and fainted.
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