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. "Defend yourself!" cried Jack, drawing his sword. “I do not like to seem inhospitable, Anna,” she said hesitatingly. “You have put all your life in my hands,” he declared. Her eyes quizzed the major.
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