Usually his charges bored him with their interrogative chatter, for he knew that his information more often than not went into one ear and out of the other. 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. . ’ ‘What sort of “down on your luck”?’ asked Alderley.
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