And stroll about, but hide their quality,
To try good people's hospitality.
It happen'd on a winter night,
As authors of the legend write,
Two brother-hermits, saints by trade,
Taking their tour in masquerade,
Disguised in tatter'd habits, went
To a small village down in Kent:
Where, in the strollers' canting strain.
They begg'd from door to door in vain.
Tried every tone might pity win;
But not a soul would let them in.

Our wandering saints, in woful state,
Treated at this ungodly rate,
Having through all the village past,
To a small cottage came at last,
Where dwelt a good old honest yeomar
Call'd in the neighbourhood Philemon ;
Who kindly did these saints invite
In his poor hut to pass the night;
And then the hospitable sire
Bid Goody Baucis mend the fire;
While he from out the chimney took
A flitch of bacon off the hook,
And freely from the fattest side
Cut out large slices to be fried;
Then stepp'd aside to fetch them drink,
Fill'd a large jug up to the brink.
And saw it fairly twice go round;
Yet (what is wonderful!) they found
'Twas still replenish'd to the top,
As if they ne'er had touched a drop,
The good old couple were amazed,
And often on each other gazed;
For both were frighten'd to the heart,
And just began to cry, "What art ?
Then softly turn'd aside to view
Whether the lights were burning blue.
The gentle pilgrims, soon aware on't,
Told them their calling, and their errand.

"Good folks you need not be afraid,
We are but saints," the hermits said;
"No hurt shall come to you or yours:
But for that pack of churlish boors,
Not fit to live on Christian ground,
They and their houses shall be drown'd;
Whilst you shall see your cottage rise,
And grow a church before your eyes.'

They scarce had spoke, when fair, and soft The roof began to mount aloft : Aloft rose every beam and rafter; The heavy wall climb'd slowly after.

The chimney widen'd, and grew higher,
Became a steeple with a spire.

The kettle to the top was hoist,
And there stood fasten'd to a joist,
But with the upside down, to show
Its inclination for below;
In vain; for a superior force,
Applied at bottom, stops its course:
Doom'd ever in suspense to dwell,
"Tis now no kettle but a bell.

A wooden jack, which had almost
Lost by disuse the art to roast,
A sudden alteration feels,

Increased by new intestine wheels;
And, what exalts the wonder more,
The number made the motion slower:
The flier, though it had leaden feet,

Turn'd round so quick, you scarce could see't
But, slacken'd by some secret power,
Now hardly moves an inch an hour.
The jack and chimney, near allied,
Had never left each ovner's side:
The chimney to a steeple grown,
The jack would not be left alone,
But up against the steeple rear'd
Became a clock, and still adhered;
And still its love to household cares,
Bv a shrill voice at noon declares,

Warning the cook maid not to burn
The roast meat which it cannot turn.
The groaning chair began to crawl,
Like a huge snail, along the wall:
There stuck aloft in public view,
And, with small change, a pulpit grew.
The porringers, that in a row

Hung high, and made a glittering show,
To a less noble substance changed,
Were now but leathern buckets ranged.
The ballads pasted on the wall,
Of Joan of France, and English Moll,
Fair Rosamond, and Robin Hood,
The little Children in the Wood,
Now seem'd to look abundance better,
Improved in picture, size, and letter,
And, high in order placed, describe
A heraldry of every tribe.

A bedstead of the antique mode,
Compact of timber many a load,
Such as our ancestors did use,
Was metamorphosed into pews;
Which still their ancient nature keep
By lodging folks disposed to sleep.

The cottage by such feats as these
Grown to a church by just degrees,
The hermits then desired their host
To ask for what he fancied most.
Philemon, having paused awhile,
Return'd them thanks in homely style:
Then said, "My house is grown so fine,
Methinks I still would call it mine;
I'm old, and fain would live at ease;
Make me the parson, if you please."
He spoke and presently he feels
His grazier's coat fall down his heels:
He sees, yet hardly can believe,
About each arm a pudding sleeve;
His waistcoat to a cassock grew,
And both assumed a sable hue:

But, being old, continued just
As threadbare, and as full of dust.
His talk was now of tithes and dues :
He smoked his pipe and read the news;
Knew how to preach old sermons next,
Vamp'd in the preface and the text:
At christenings well could act his part,
And had the service all by heart;
Wish'd women might have children fast,
And thought whose sow had farrow'd last;
Against dissenters would repine,
And stood up firm for right divine;
Found his head fill'd with many a system :
But classic authors,-he ne'er miss'd 'em.
Thus having furnish'd up a parson,
Dame Baucis next they play'd their farce on.
Instead of homespun coifs, were seen
Good pinners edged with colberteen ;
Her petticoat, transform'd apace,
Became black satin flounced with lace.
Plain Goody would no longer down;
"Twas Madam in her grogram gown.
Philemon was in great surprise,
And hardly could believe his eyes,
Amazed to see her look so prim,
And she admired as much at him.
Thus happy in their change of life
Were several years this man and wife;
When on a day, which proved their last,
Discoursing o'er old stories past,
They went by chance, amidst their talk,
To the churchyard to take a walk;

When Baucis hastily cried out,

66

'My dear, I see your forehead sprout!

Sprout!" quoth the man; "what's this you tell I hope you don't believe me jealous!

But yet, methinks, I feel it true;
And really your's is budding too-
Nay, now I cannot stir my foot;
It feels as if 'twere taking root."

[us ?

Description would but tire my Muse;
In short they both were turn'd to yews.
Old Goodman Dobson of the green
Remembers, he the trees hath seen;
He'll talk of them from noon till night,
And goes with folks to show the sight:
On Sundays, after evening prayer,
He gathers all the parish there;
Points out the place of either yew;
Here Baucis, there Philemon grew:
Till once a parson of our town,

To mend his barn, cut Baucis down:
At which 'tis hard to be believed
How much the other tree was grieved,
Grew scrubbed, died a-top, was stunted;
So the next parson stubbed and burnt it.
2. RAIN IN THE CITY.

Careful observers may foretell the hour
(By sure prognostics) when to dread a shower.
While rain depends, the pensive cat gives o'er
Her frolics, and pursues her tail no more;
Returning home at night, you'll find the sink
Strike your offended sense with double stink.
If you be wise, then go not far to dine;
You'll spend in coach-hire more than save in wine.
A coming shower your shooting corns presage,
Old aches will throb, your hollow tooth will rage.
Sauntering in coffee-house is Dulman seen;
He damns the climate, and complains of spleen.
Meanwhile the south, rising with dabbled wings,
A sable cloud athwart the welkin flings,
That swill'd more liquor than it could contain,
And, like a drunkard, gives it up again.
Brisk Susan whips her linen from the rope,
When the first drizzling shower is borne aslope:
Such is that sprinkling which some careless quean
Flirts on you from her mop, but not so clean :
You fly, invoke the gods; then turning, stop
To rail: she singing, still whirls on her mop.