“Who do you think cares for your children as you dally with my husband, Clotilde?” Lucy asked. I don’t want to know. 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. "Well, I've seen many a gallant fellow in my time, Mr. ’ ‘Don’t talk soft,’ begged Martha.
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