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. Nor my grandfathers both. "I thought you were asleep. ” “But didn’t Alice want to marry Doctor Ralph?” “Oh, ssh, Vee!” said her mother, with an evasion as patent as an advertisement board. —I do not congratulate you on your success.
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