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. “If I had three hands,” she said, with a faint smile, “I would give one to each of you. He reached for her and she stroked his head soothingly as his mother had done a few times when he had suffered bad fevers. White was scattered across the long stretches of pine trees and corn fields. Who but you would have dreamed of giving the boy such a name? Why, it's the name of a river, not a Christian.
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