Where Saint Giles' church stands, once a lazar-house stood; And, chain'd to its gates, was a vessel of wood; A broad-bottom'd bowl, from which all the fine fellows, Who pass'd by that spot, on their way to the gallows, Might tipple strong beer, Their spirits to cheer, And drown in a sea of good liquor all fear! For nothing the transit to Tyburn beguiles So well as a draught from the Bowl of Saint Giles! II. good, miss. ’ He reddened a little, and shuffled his feet. " "I don't care for that," replied Jack. Rain started to pummel the roof of the pavilion, which coalesced into sheets and rumbled to the cement below. ‘Not care? For this he must be an Englishman tout à fait sympathique, and— and I know only.
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