” And to that, through vast rhetorical meanderings, she clung. “Oh yes,” said Miss Klegg; “I thought every one knew. All bad verse—originally the epigram was Lang’s, I believe—is written in a state of emotion. 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. Life’s hard enough nowadays for an unprotected male.
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