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. But I can easily bring in a sing-song girl to play for you. Fancy, as they say hereabouts!" What had aroused this open-air monologue was a small tin sign in a window. " "Take hence this boy, then," rejoined Trenchard; "his looks unman me. She turned back to Gerald, holding out her hand. But for all that, it offered relief; his brain, stupefied by the fumes, grew dull, and conscience lost its edge to bite. She wished he could smoke and dull his nerves a little. This—all this swamps them.
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