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. Stanley, standing up with a sudden geniality and rubbing his hands together. He came as an agreeable diversion from an insoluble perplexity. Don’t touch the handle, Annabel! Curse the thing, you’ve jammed it now.
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This video was uploaded to probiv.club on 18-05-2024 13:58:06
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