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. And though I say it that shouldn't say it, no man can tie a better knot. He never finished his sentence. Having read the three first verses of the impressive service appointed for the burial of the dead, he returned to the church, whither the coffin was carried through the south-western door, and placed in the centre of the aisle—Mr. Both started. "What?—help take care of him? Why, you can't do that, Miss Enschede!" was the protest. What brings you here?” “I’m here to see my uncle. A girl—at my age—is grown-up.
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This video was uploaded to sportswearcatch.shop on 17-06-2024 05:29:05
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