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. Jack now carefully closed the shutters, while Blueskin struck a light, with which he set fire to a candle. “You little wretch!” she exclaimed weakly. “There is no—Good God!” he exclaimed. I was sure you could not have the heart to slay a child—an innocent child.
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