Lucy collapsed to the floor in a sob. Lucy thought of a song that she had not been able to get out of her head since the Fifties. And, lastly, to the Seven Cities o' Refuge, in the New Mint. 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. “I don’t know, John.
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