"What did the old fellow judge from, eh, Joan?" asked he. 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. We stepped from the Embassy into the motor—and oh! I thought that he was dead. ” “Yes, Lucy, but you could make the same statement looking in the mirror. He will have it that I’ve taken leave of my senses.
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