Will you let your servant call me a hansom,” she continued, opening the door before he could reach her side. Her lips parted, but no words came. 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. In the middle there was a gate. Sir John followed her gaze, and also saw them. A few yards further off something grey, inert, was lying, a huddled-up heap of humanity twisted into a strange unnatural shape. I found it on the beach, just sitting there nestled inside a piece of driftwood.
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