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. ‘That’s not much comfort. “Number 13, please, cabman. “Oh yes,” said Miss Klegg; “I thought every one knew. The emerald wings, slashed with scarlet and yellow, wheeling and swooping about her head, there among the wild plantain. " "Why didn't you head him off, explain that it couldn't be done by a white man?" Ah Cum shrugged. "He shan't go," cried Edgeworth Bess, holding him by the other hand. .
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