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. “It’s either now or never,” she said to herself. ’ ‘What matters it?’ cried Melusine impatiently. Then Courtlaw looked across at her with a white puzzled face. “My friend,” she said, “I have been your pupil for two years. She almost laughed, but repressed her smile lest it seem cruel. James's built for offices of the meanest description.
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