What! mum still. 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. It was horrible, but she must do it. He took his social pleasures once a year in Hong-Kong, after Easter. But how long would she last, withering away to a desiccated pile of skin and bone? Round and round she would go.
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