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He’s the handle of life for you. 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. These little squares of coloured paper interested her mightily—hotel labels. His eyebrows arched, knotting in the middle. "I suppose I was mistaken," returned Gay. Adventure rules, and morality—looks up the trains in the Bradshaw.
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This video was uploaded to waterscolumns.info on 26-09-2024 08:21:24