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. He seemed to know a great deal about life. " "Oh Heavens!" cried Jack, driven to his wits' end. “It’s—it’s a difficult question. She might scream until her voice failed; the natives would not come to her aid; they never meddled with the affairs of the whites.
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