Look at me. See!" she added, tearing the rag from her head,—"I had beautiful black hair once. Wood strained his eyes to catch a glimpse of the flying skiff. 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. She had never been able to discover where her father had hidden his shaving mirror. You represented to us the immaculate Briton, the one Englishman who typified the Saxonism, if I may coin a word, of our race.
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