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" "No more of this," rejoined Thames, "or we shall quarrel. He was tender with her as he had not been in years. 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. You are wedged in amongst a crowd, perhaps in the promenade, you lean over the back, you are almost out of sight. You can’t look me in the eyes and say you don’t care for me.
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