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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. ‘She’s an eviltempered little termagant, yes, but there’s no malice aforethought. ” She rose up. “Hi John. But if not himself, there would be another soon enough. " "Yes, yer hon'r," replied the chairman, taking the note. What she said is true. .
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