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. “I should think YOU could do all sorts of things. She addressed an envelope to Ramage, and scrawled on a half-sheet of paper, “The rest shall follow. She is a stranger to you. ’ She shook her head sadly. If she had any idea at all, it was something she dimly recalled from her books: something celestially beautiful, with a happy ending. Yet an indiscriminating, wrong-headed world gave such fellows all sorts of distinctions. Had it not been for the Plague, she might have had her own babies.
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