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. “Have you anything to ask the witness?” asked the helpful inspector. Even the horns were easing into the concept and the woodwinds in the second movement were particularly well-orchestrated. "Them's catchpoles, I s'pose, Sir, arter the gemman with a writ?" he observed. ‘As for you—’ ‘Do not address me. There was one letter.
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