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. "And now," said Thames, (for we must still preserve the name,) "you will no longer defer my happiness. “Now bite as hard as you can, John. He was draining a glass, and as he set it down he shuddered. She had made her way since then a little further into the heart of life. “But—your people!” she gasped.
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