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. "The worst house in the neighbourhood—the constant haunt of reprobates and thieves," groaned Wood. Help! help!" But her cries were unheeded. ‘I am extremely displeased. And the fences are down for good. And son of a pig,’ she grunted, baring her teeth. The marriage cannot—shall not be delayed.
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