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. ’ ‘Mercy me,’ gasped the nun. I am totally like this on my own. But that possibility had been anticipated. “You wish me to stay?” he asked, in a low tone. I shall charge you five per cent. Two children, who had been caught in the jam-closet: ingratiating smiles, back of which lay doubt and fear.
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