"There's a guinea to drink our health," she added, slipping a piece of money into his hand. 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. " "Do not speak of it," rejoined Thames, with a look of horror. ‘But, Gérard—’ ‘Don’t start arguing,’ he said in a tone that brooked no defiance. "You didn't spend it?" "I never intended to spend it—any more than I really intended to steal it. I have weird skin.
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