The procession had just got into line of march, when a dreadful groan, mixed with yells, hootings, and execrations, was heard. ’ ‘Ah, that is good,’ sighed the lady. "Once in this chair, yer hon'r, and I'll warrant he'll not get out so aisily as Jack Sheppard did from the New Pris'n. 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. ’ She edged sideways a little more, her eyes on the pistol in his hand. “I might return the compliment, Courtlaw,” he answered, “by asking why the devil you come lurching on to the pavement like a drunken man. What happened? Did you turn me?” “Yes, my love.
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