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. “Is it okay if I go to the Junior Prom with John Diedermayer?” She asked Cathy in a low voice. ’ ‘Fiddle,’ scoffed Miss Froxfield. Again returning to the main road, he passed through Clapton; and turning off on the left, arrived at the foot of Stamford Hill. .
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