The Ragged Edge. 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. But, you see, I’m smirched. He had tossed an honoured name into the mire; he required no prison bars to accentuate this misery. Soon, they fattened up, their cheeks rosy and their hair shining. He turned, and beheld Winifred. After all, where prayer fails, a pistol is bound to succeed. But I'll take care of her bill, if worst comes to worst.
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