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. It ran in rivulets down her face, penetrating her hood and the thick quilting of her coat. I'm in a funk," Spurlock confessed. ” She replied. Without whisky," went on McClintock, "your irritability is beyond tolerance. I have no intention of allowing you to depart in a hurry.
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