A diversion was created by the violent struggles of the little old lady. “My dear girl,” he said, in a tone of patient reasonableness, “you are a mere child. He hung precariously on the ragged edge, but he hung there. 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. Threw it out. To find the incentive! But how? Thither and yon the idea roved, seeking the way.
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