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 had a sort of idea,” he went on, “that you were starting life all over again, and it seemed awfully plucky. We begin rehearsing on Monday at the ‘Garrick’. "That's for Winifred," vociferated the Amazon, bringing the cudgel heavily upon his shoulder. "Well, he's a pretty fellow at all events," observed Mrs.
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