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. “Well, I don’t want you to talk to him,” he said, very firmly. Blood, they say, won't come out. The horse-soldiers wheeled round and cleared a path: the foot closed in upon the cart. ‘This we will leave.
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