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. Who says that I am not Meysey Hill? I was trying to scare you. I don’t see what you can have to say. Her slender throat was encircled by a black riband, with a small locket attached to it; and upon the top of her head rested a diminutive lace cap. Remember that he’s not at all a bad sort, and to speak frankly, he’s your salvation. The one profession, the one decent profession, I mean, for a woman—except the stage— is teaching, and there we trample on one another. If he took a fancy to you, he invited you to the house for tea, bitter and yellow and served in little cups without handles.
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