She would have to leave very soon. That night, she hunted the alleyways of the old town. It is the bottom of the cup, where all the dregs appear to settle. 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. Howsomdever, if you should reach t'other side, take an old feller's advice, and don't be foolhardy enough to venter back again. "Where are you going?" she asked.
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