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. "'Sdeath!" cried Hogarth, aside to the poet. “Limp,” he answered. “I—I am sorry—I didn’t explain. . But I'll tell you about him some other time. Didn't understand me when I said she would be compromised! He won't be able to leave his bed under four weeks; and she said she hadn't much money. “Hold on, she’s right here. " "Funny, about that coat. Somebody ought to talk to him, warn him. ” He said jealously. .
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