The race began once more; but this time Ruth knew that there would be no escape. Perceiving he was about to take leave, Kneebone ventured to ask whom he had had the honour of addressing. 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. A bumper round, gentlemen.
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