. . 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. As usual, however, on the occasion of any great calamity, a crowd was scouring the streets, whose sole object was plunder. "A bad business this, Van," observed Baptist, with a prolonged shake of the head. As for himself, there had never been a touch of it. Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. “You are quite right, I think. There were menacing possibilities; the thought of them set him a-tremble. It had been a big event for teens across town.
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