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. “How?” 106 “The other person makes the mistake of going to sleep. You don't notice the heat; but it is always there, pressing down. "Follow me, Thames," cried Jack, dropping into the chasm. ‘Ask him.
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