“It is part of the irony of life,” he said. Naturally you shout yourself hoarse when she has finished, and feel jolly pleased with yourself. 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. "Where did you learn the song I heard just now?" he demanded, in an authoritative tone. ” “How the hell did you learn to play like that?” “Lots of practice, John.
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