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. They are blinded to all fine and subtle things —they look at life with bloodshot eyes and dilated nostrils. They went on talking in the train—it seemed to her father a slight want of deference to him—and he listened and pretended to read the Times. "Before you go, bring me the bottle of pineapple rum I opened yesterday. “Absolutely,” the doctor answered, “and the sooner the better.
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