BAUCIS AND PHILEMON. 

Imitated, From the Eighth Book of OVID.

Written, 1706.

In antient Times, as Story tells,
 The Saints would often leave their Cells. 
And strole 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;
 Disguis'd in tatter'd Habits, went
 To a small Village down in Kent;
 Where, in the Strolers Canting Strain,
 They beg'd from Door to Door in vain;
 Try'd ev'ry Tone might Pity win,
 But not a Soul would let them in. 

OUR wand'ring Saints in woful State,
 Treated at this ungodly Rate,
 Having thro' all the Village pass'd,
 To a small Cottage came at last;
 Where dwelt a good old honest Yeoman,
 Call'd, in the Neighbourhood, Philemon. 
Who kindly did the 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 of Chimney took
 A Flitch of Bacon off the Hook;
 And freely from the fattest Side
 Cut out large Slices to be fry'd;
 Then stept aside to fetch 'em 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 replenished to the Top,
 As if they ne'er had toucht a Drop,
 The good old Couple was amaz'd,
 And often on each other gaz'd;
 For both were frighted to the Heart,
 And just began to cry; — What ar't
 Then softly turn'd aside to view,
 Whether the Lights were burning blue. 
The gentle Pilgrims soon aware on't,
 Told 'em their Calling, and their Errant:
 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 ev'ry 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 fast'ned to a Joist:
 But with the Upside down, to shew
 Its Inclinations for below;
 In vain; for a Superior Force
 Apply'd at Bottom, stops its Course,
 Doom'd ever in Suspence 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,
 Increas'd by new Intestine Wheels:
 And, what exalts the Wonder more,
 The Number made the Motion slow'r:
 The Flyer, tho't had Leaden Feet,
 Turn'd round so quick, you scarce cou'd see't;
 But slacken'd by some secret Power,
 Now hardly moves an Inch an Hour. 
The Jack and Chimney near ally'd,
 Had never left each other's Side;
 The Chimney to a Steeple grown,
 The Jack wou'd not be left alone,
 But up against the Steeple rear'd,
 Became a Clock, and still adher'd:
 And still its Love to Houshold Cares
 By a shrill Voice at Noon declares,
 Warning the Cook-maid, not to burn
 That Roast-meat which it cannot turn. 

THE Groaning Chair began to crawl
 Like an huge Snail along the Wall;
 There stuck aloft, in Publick View,
 And with small Change, a Pulpit grew. 

THE Porringers, that in a Row
 Hung high, and made a glitt'ring Show,
 To a less Noble Substance chang'd
 Were now but Leathern Buckets rang'd. 

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,
 Improv'd in Picture, Size, and Letter;
 And high in Order plac'd describe
 The Heraldry of ev'ry Tribe. 

A Bedstead of the Antique Mode,
 Compact of Timber many a Load,
 Such as our Ancestors did use,
 Was Metamorphos'd into Pews;
 Which still their antient Nature keep;
 By lodging Folks dispos'd to Sleep. 

THE Cottage by such Feats as these,
 Grown to a Church by just Degrees,
 The Hermits then desir'd their Host
 To ask for what he fancy'd most:
 Philemon, having paus'd a while,
 Return'd 'em Thanks in homely Stile;
 Then said; my House is grown so Fine,
 Methinks, I still wou'd call it mine:
 I'm Old, and fain wou'd 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 Wastcoat to a Cassock grew,
 And both assum'd a Sable Hue;
 But being Old, continu'd just
 As Thread-bare, and as full of Dust. 
His Talk was now of Tythes and Dues,
 Cou'd smoak his Pipe, and read the News;
 Knew how to preach old Sermons next,
 Vampt in the Preface and the Text;
 At Christnings 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 wou'd repine,
 And stood up firm for Right Divine:
 Found his Head fill'd with many a System,
 But Classick Authors — he ne'er miss'd e'em. 

THUS having furbish'd up a Parson,
 Dame Baucis next they play'd their Farce on:
 Instead of Home-spun Coifs were seen,
 Good Pinners edg'd with Colberteen:
 Her Petticoat transform'd apace,
 Became Black Sattin, Flounc'd with Lace,
 Plain Goody would no longer down,
 'Twas Madam, in her Grogram Gown. 
Philemon was in great Surprize,
 And hardly could believe his Eyes,
 Amaz'd to see Her look so Prim,
 And she admir'd as much at Him. 

THUS, happy in their Change of Life,
 Were serveral Years this Man and Wife,
 When on a Day, which prov'd their last,
 Discoursing on old Stories past,
 They went by chance, amidst their Talk,
 To the Church-yard, to take a walk;
 When Baucis hastily cry'd out;
 My Dear, I see your Forehead sprout:
 Sprout, quoth the Man, What's this you tell us? 
I hope you don't believe me Jealous:
 But yet, methinks, I feel it ture;
 And re'ly, Yours is budding too —
 Nay, — now I cannot stir my Foot:
 It feels as if 'twere taking Root. 

DESCRIPTION would but tire my Muse:
 In short, they both were turn'd to Yews. 
Old Good-man Dobson of the Green
 Remembers he the Trees has seen;
 He'll talk of them from Noon till Night,
 And goes with Folks to shew the Sight:
 On Sundays, after Ev'ning 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 believ'd,
 How much the other Tree was griev'd,
 Grew Scrubby, dy'd a-top, was stunted:
 So, the next Parson stub'd and burnt it.