He fancied that the whole fabric of the bridge was cracking over head,—that the arch was tumbling upon him,—that the torrent was swelling around him, whirling him off, and about to bury him in the deafening abyss. " And he struck up the following ballad:— SAINT GILES'S BOWL. " "There is a great art in it, if you did," quoth he.
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