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. However this may be now, it was unquestionably true of old Newgate. “I have a special surprise for you, Lucia. In your heart you know quite well that all that you have said is useless. What better way to be rid of him? ‘Jacques,’ she uttered urgently.
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