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. “Yet it is my last evening, and I think —if you are sure that you would like to have me—that I will risk it. But a far greater affliction was in store for her. "Well, since you force me to betray my master's secrets," replied Quilt, sullenly, "I've ridden express to Manchester to deliver a message to Sir Rowland. “You must tell me the truth, and I will see that no harm comes to you. "Impossible!" echoed Wild, with a fearful imprecation. "Your servant, Sir Rowland," said the stranger, ducking his head, as he advanced. She could even think of what had happened.
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