" "Poh! poh!" rejoined Ireton; "it was mere idle boasting. 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. Her cheeks burned for a moment or two when she reached the street, although she held her head upright and walked blithely, even humming to herself fragments of an old French song. They either ran to see or ran for shelter.
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