Anyhow, she’s disappeared for some reason or other. 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. He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is. ‘So now you will please to go away and leave me to my business. But, go and see who it is, love. “Why, what is the matter with you? What do you mean?” Annabel laughed scornfully.
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