‘Except Captain Roding,’ agreed the old lady, nodding at the butler. 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. The whole of that relationship persisted in remaining obscure. Her hair got loose, her hat came over one eye, and she had no arm free to replace it.
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