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. You did not say a word about it last week, nor have you written. "Quilt Arnold, is that you?" "It is, Sir," sputtered the janizary. Shortly Ruth and Spurlock took the way home. But the cases were not identical. It would hurt no one.
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