Who's the lucky boy, Lucy?\" Lucy looked at her slippered feet. The spinsters—who on the morrow would vanish out of the girl's life for ever—had already left their imprint upon her imagination. 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. But I waited in vain. Dismissing the post-chaise at the Old Bailey, he walked to Newgate to ascertain what had occurred since the escape. “I go to private school right now.
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