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. The day was unseasonably humid and dark, a thick fog having descended over manicured lawns. Mr. . As a matter of fact Mr. ‘I have told you that I am entirely English. Oh God! pardon me. But he has never been near her—never.
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