Wood, whose loss I shall ever deplore. 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. Every one took him for the millionaire, and he had lost his head about me. “What are you doing?” He cried. Wood, softening her asperity. His thoughts, indeed, were too painful for utterance, and so acute were his feelings, that, for some time, they quite overcame him. "Besides, you'll not be able to get in without me.
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