Still, I'm glad she didn't accept my invitation to join us. 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. You don’t know what you ask nor what you say. She lay very still and closed her eyes, hear tears gliding off of her ears, causing them to itch.
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