They stank, and she hated how they blocked the sunlight. I was in Lancashire, at our family seat, at the time you mention. "So did I," answered Jack; "we had better move on. Something seemed to dredge up from the recesses of her memory and she brightened. 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. We meant to make it dinner and a theatre, but you were not home.
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