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 could only wonder that this amazing thing had remained so long a secret to him. ” “And you knew, of course, that we were old friends?” “Indeed!” “Lady Ferringhall, I love your sister. Not the explosive vigour of the north-born, but that which would quietly meet physical hardships and bear them triumphantly. “I love this warm end of summer more than words can tell,” he said. ” “I have a clue, at any rate,” he remarked, smiling.
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