And on Monday and Tuesday she had failed to find him here. 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. It is I who took the burden of your misdeeds upon my shoulders that you might become Lady Ferringhall. “I wish,” she said, “that you would leave off looking at me as though I were something grisly. "But, take my advice, and keep out of Sir Rowland's way, or you'll get the poor lady into trouble as well as me.
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