“Even Katy Pfister can’t touch you now. 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. The man was dangerous. "He said, by way of comfort, I suppose, after the fright he gave me at first, that the child would find a friend within twenty-four hours, who would stand by him through life. "Right!—right!" cried Jack, striking his fettered hands against his breast. "He will be murdered!—Help!" "My child!—my love!" cried Wood, dragging her forcibly back. He kept that, but the rest.
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This video was uploaded to borgodeltaglio.com on 31-05-2024 16:11:55
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