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. "Hush!" she said, putting her lean fingers to her lips. I throw up work—everything! I just teach in one school, one good school, three days a week. " "She is a matchless creature!" exclaimed the young man. Taber returning. Ruth felt his hand grow cold as it slipped from hers.
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