"Stand aside, Tom," commanded Kneebone. 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. "Come up by the packet?" "No; came up with The Tigress. A momentary petrifaction, and terror had lent wings to her feet. It is not every sort of creature needs—these males. "What's your name?" he said, addressing the audacious lad, who was looking about him as coolly as if nothing material was going on.
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