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. Glancing idly up at her own window as they had swung round the corner she had seen a strange thing. I deserve pretty much what I’ve got. What a frightened fool he was! If he could not remember her name, it was equally possible that already she had forgotten his.
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