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. “Who the hell are you, Lucy?” “Promise me you will never tell anyone. “No, that’s fine. It takes too many years to climb even a step in the social ladder. I’ll be ready in a moment. The afternoon was her own; but from eight until midnight she sat beside the patient.
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This video was uploaded to southmsnightout.com on 01-06-2024 06:16:44
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