The winter of 1348 seemed to last an eternity, but the Pestilence struck in one day. Ann Veronica passed from her aunt to her father, and put her arms about him and kissed his cheek. Anna, who had sung the first verse of her song, looked around the house, a little surprised at the absence of the applause which had never yet failed her. Lucy followed her. Kneebone, who was on the point of departing. 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 now, Quilt," he continued, addressing the janizary, who approached him with the horse, "fly to St. Left to Capting Roding, as he told me hisself, you’d be in prison this moment.
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