Where Saint Giles's Church stands, once a lazar-house stood;
And chained to its gates was a vessel of wood;
A broad-bottomed bowl, from which all the fine fellows,
Who passed 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!
By many a highwayman many a draught
Of nutty-brown ale at Saint Giles's was quaft,
Until the old lazar-house chanced to fall down,
And the broad-bottomed bowl was removed to the Crown
Where the robber may cheer
His spirits with beer
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!
There Mulsack and Swiftneck, both prigs from their birth,
Old Mob and Tom Cox took their last draught on earth;
There Randal, and Shorter, and Witney pulled up,
And Jolly Jack Joyce drank his finishing cup!
For a can of ale calms
A highwayman's qualms,
And makes him sing blithely his dolorous psalms!
For nothing the transit to Tyburn beguiles
So well as a draught from the Bowl of Saint Giles!
When gallant Jack Sheppard to Tyburn was led,
“Stop the cart at the Crown—stop a moment,” he said.
He was offered the Bowl, but he left it and smiled,
Crying, “Keep it till called for by Jonathan Wild!
The rascal one day
Will pass by this way,
And drink a full measure to moisten his clay!
And never will Bowl of Saint Giles have beguiled
Such a thorough-paced scoundrel as Jonathan Wild!”
Should it e'er be my lot to ride backwards that way,
At the door of the Crown I will certainly stay;
I'll summon the landlord—I'll call for the Bowl,
And drink a deep draught for the health of my soul!
Whatever may hap,
I'll taste of the tap,
To keep up my spirits when brought to the crap!
For nothing the transit to Tyburn beguiles
So well as a draught from the Bowl of Saint Giles!
And chained to its gates was a vessel of wood;
A broad-bottomed bowl, from which all the fine fellows,
Who passed 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!
By many a highwayman many a draught
Of nutty-brown ale at Saint Giles's was quaft,
Until the old lazar-house chanced to fall down,
And the broad-bottomed bowl was removed to the Crown
Where the robber may cheer
His spirits with beer
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!
There Mulsack and Swiftneck, both prigs from their birth,
Old Mob and Tom Cox took their last draught on earth;
There Randal, and Shorter, and Witney pulled up,
And Jolly Jack Joyce drank his finishing cup!
For a can of ale calms
A highwayman's qualms,
And makes him sing blithely his dolorous psalms!
For nothing the transit to Tyburn beguiles
So well as a draught from the Bowl of Saint Giles!
When gallant Jack Sheppard to Tyburn was led,
“Stop the cart at the Crown—stop a moment,” he said.
He was offered the Bowl, but he left it and smiled,
Crying, “Keep it till called for by Jonathan Wild!
The rascal one day
Will pass by this way,
And drink a full measure to moisten his clay!
And never will Bowl of Saint Giles have beguiled
Such a thorough-paced scoundrel as Jonathan Wild!”
Should it e'er be my lot to ride backwards that way,
At the door of the Crown I will certainly stay;
I'll summon the landlord—I'll call for the Bowl,
And drink a deep draught for the health of my soul!
Whatever may hap,
I'll taste of the tap,
To keep up my spirits when brought to the crap!
For nothing the transit to Tyburn beguiles
So well as a draught from the Bowl of Saint Giles!