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. ” “Well, perhaps it is a bit depressing. Concealed among the trees that edged the estate grounds, the watchers paused. You are not going to that infidel Russell’s classes. “The wrappered life-discipline! One comes to that at last.
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