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. ’ ‘Excellent,’ Gerald had approved. We were only—les autres. He spent the evening telling her stories of Greece as she sat in front of a roaring fire. He would pursue that little pastime on some other occasion. Vorsack would staunchly disapprove of his attire, said nothing anyway. ‘You speak as if you expected to meet her again, Gerald.
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