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. Silence! Then Anna clutched her companion’s arm. They litter up the room. She knew the truth of it all right. Then, naturally, I went on talking. “And let us have a talk about this—some other time. ” “Annabel is a prophetess,” he declared.
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