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. "Bring him along, Joe!" said Jackson, in a whisper to his comrade. Well, I'd no idea," she continued, pursuing her ruminations as she left the room, "that people of quality laughed so. You think you love this other man! No doubt you do love him. ‘I should not dream of forcing my attentions on you.
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