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Where the robber may cheer His spirit with beer, 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! III. Hurled over the sides of the skiff, the ruffian speedily found a watery grave. “How dare you? You are trying to kidnap my babies!” Clotilde demanded.

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