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. So I ran away, blindly, knowing nothing of the world outside. He squatted and threw his arm around the backs of her knees. Supper was over. The plank hung over his head. "Search him and iron him afresh;" commanded Jonathan.
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