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. " "Conduct me to your dwelling, Sir, without further delay," said Trenchard, sternly,—"to the boy. “To tell you the truth, I am a little dull. If ever he requires my services, he shall find I'm not ungrateful. “I’ve never been prone to them. Sheppard, clasping him with a hand that burnt with fever, "I have been ill—dreadfully ill—I believe delirious—I thought I should have died last night—I won't tell you what agony you have caused me—I won't reproach you. “This is mere nonsense, mere tongue-tied fear!” she said. “Glad to see you in London. ‘For God’s sake, let go my hand,’ he begged.
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