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. ’ ‘Then what?’ demanded Lucilla in a hushed tone. He disappeared into its thick doors like a magician’s rabbit. There is not a soul in the inn but ourselves. “Good-looking rascal she met at Worthing. But it annoyed Ann Veronica. "You have defied me, and shall feel my power. Never mind.
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