In an instant the expectant calm of Westminster was ended, and the very Speaker in the chair blenched at the sound of the policemen’s whistles. She would never again be lonely. She was chic, distinguished, unusual. Perhaps it was just as well there was no inherited memory. ’ Then she frowned. 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.
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