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. Ladies with weapon’s on ’em. ‘I am done, Gérard. “These are her rooms,” she said. ” “I know—” said Ramage, with sympathy. . . There were white men with families, a fine mission-house, and a club-house for cards and billiards. His treatment of his wife is most unsatisfactory. He could think about it later. He leaned forward to better drink her in.
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