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He did not speak for a moment. She's not for pleasure, but for work. ’ ‘The word of whom?’ came scoffingly from the pretty lips. The boy would never know just how lucky he was. 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. Come.

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