I'm always agreeable to the women, bless their kind hearts! Now! slip the purse into my hand. 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 are the Sir John Ferringhall who has bought the Lyndmore estate, are you not?” she remarked. They are for serving me.
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