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. After an hour of waiting, she slammed her bedroom door and he returned to his basement. Why? What is she to you?” “I was there by accident,” Ennison answered. He was snoring stupidly. And then all her restlessness was turned to joy. “I feel fat! I already gained five pounds last week because I was stuck in bed with my ear infection.
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