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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. You do not believe me. ’ ‘So did your business about marrying an Englishman seem to me,’ Gerald returned. He had informed her that to leave him would be a choice to live a life of meager subsistence. “Accident! She shot me,” he muttered.
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This video was uploaded to waterscolumns.info on 10-09-2024 08:09:13
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