" And he struck up the following ballad:— SAINT GILES'S BOWL. ‘You are too shrewd for me, ma’am. Would that a certain major might cast upon her such a look. To the poor carpenter it seemed an endless distance. It was a boy baby cooing in swaddling clothes, a baby who had just been born to the butcher's servant across the alley, the maid Isobella who trailed behind, beaming.
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