“And yet,” he said, “you bid me talk cheerfully, or not at all. Profligate women are never reclaimed. 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. “Is that not rather a profitless speculation, my friend?” He seemed deaf to her interruption. Sadly, the Christmas break came to an end. " "What for? What do you want of them?" "Why, they are … yours. In my search after strange characters, Mr.
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