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. The Widow and her Child. Nothing could occupy her attention long today, unless it concerned her situation. The door leading to the front of the house was stealthily opening. “She appears to be very popular here,” she remarked. Gerald’s thoughts raced as he reached out supporting hands and murmured meaningless phrases to soothe.
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