. 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. If you were a poet in need of rhymes, you had only to turn to a certain page. You see, we travelled second class, and we are in the least known quarter of Paris. Take your pick, Mrs. Nigel Ennison, Annabel. ‘Lucky I have you to keep me from Bedlam, then. Maggot. She came into the room. . ’ ‘Ah yes.
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