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. "Quick. The air was pungent and leaden. O'Higgins struck a match and lit his Henry Clay, thereby drawing upon himself the mutual disapproval of the spinsters. Cathy's eyebrows perked up. Edward Bribble stood between them with an open book. She held it away from her with an instinctive repulsion, born of her unconquerable antipathy to the touch of strangers. For that worthless father of yours—’ Melusine let go the hand only so that she might throw her own hands in the air.
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