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 weather's been foul enough for the last fortnight, but I've never turned my back upon it. Her fingers found the lump she sought and, with a little effort, she dragged out the black-wrapped foil. “I think this ends the business,” he said, turning to his sister. They were so nearly alike that the difference would be due to a shaky hand.
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