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. The action steadied him; and there was a phase of irony, too, that helped. Do not underestimate my power. "My name is Kneebone," added the portly personage, stepping forward. " "Robbed him!" screamed the widow. ‘You will release me at once, imbecile. This isn’t the place.
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