‘Oh, peste. 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. Ruth's arm trembled and her step faltered, but he was too far away in thought to be observant. Anything that had love in it! The doctor comprehended that he also had his work cut out. ‘Why, what have I said?’ ‘You said to me my name.
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