The gentle pilgrims, foon aware on't,
Told them their calling, and their errant :
Good folks, you need not be afraid,
We are but faints, the hermits faid;
No hurt fhall come to you or yours;
But for that pack of churlish boors,
Not fit to live on Christian ground,
They and their houses fhall be drown'd:
Whilft you shall fee 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 hoift,
And there ftood faft'ned to a joist;
But with the upside down to fhew
Its inclination for below:
In vain; for a fuperior force
Apply'd at bottom flops its course :
Doom'd ever in fufpence to dwell,
"Tis now no kettle, but a bell.
A wooden jack, which had almost
Loft, by difufe, the art to roaft,
A fudden alteration feels,
Increas'd by new inteftine wheels;
And, what exalts the wonder more,
The number made the motion flow'r.
The flyer, tho't had leaden feet,
Turn'd round fo quick, you scarce cou'd fee't;
But, flacken'd by fome fecret power,
Now hardly moves an inch an hour.
The jack and chimney, near ally'd,
Had never left each other's fide;
The chimney to a steeple grown,
The jack would not be left alone,
But, up against the steeple rear'd,
Became a clock, and ftill adher'd:
And ftill its love to houfhold-cares,
By a fhrill voice at noon, declares;
Warning the cook-maid not to burn
That roaft-meat which it cannot turn.
The groaning chair began to crawl,
Like an huge fnail, along the wall;
There stuck aloft, in publick view,
And, with fmall change, a pulpit grew.
The porringers, that in a row
Hung high, and made a glitt'ring fhow, 90
To a lefs noble fubftance chang'd,
Were now but leathern buckets rang'd.
The ballads, pafted on the wall,
Of Joan of France, and English Moll,
Fair Rofamond, and Robin Hood,
The little children in the wood,
Now feem'd to look abundance better,
Improv'd in picture, fize, and letter;
And, high in order plac'd, defcribe
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 ftill their ancient nature keep,
By lodging folks difpos'd to fleep.
The cottage by such seats as these
Grown to a church by juft degrees,
The hermits then defir'd their hoft
To ask for what he fancy'd moft.
Philemon having paus'd a while,
Return'd 'em thanks in homely ftile;
Then faid, My houfe is grown fo fine,
Methinks, I ftill would call it mine,
I'm old, and fain wou'd live at ease;
Make me the parfon, if you please.
"Of the twelve tribes of Ifrael, which in country burches are fometimes diftinguished by the enfigns appropriated to them by Jacob on his death-bed."
He spoke, and presently he feels
His grazier's coat fall down his heels;
He fees, yet hardly can believe,
About each arm a pudding-fleeve;
His waftcoat to a caffock grew,
And both affum'd a fable hue;
But, being old, continued just
As thread-bare, and as full of dust.
His talk was now of tythes and dues :
He fmok'd his pipe, and read the news;
Knew how to preach old fermons next,
Vampt in the preface and the text;
At chriftnings well could act his part,
And had the service all by heart;
Wish'd women might have children fast,
And thought whofe fow had farrow'd laft;
Against diffenters would repine,
And stood up firm for right divine;
Found his head fill'd with many a system :
But claffick authors,-he ne'er mifs'd 'em.
Thus having furbish'd up a parfon, Dame Baucis next they play'd their farce on. Instead of home-fpun coifs, were seen Good pinners edg'd with colberteen; Her petticoat, transform'd apace, Became black fattin, flounc'd with lace. Plain goody would no longer down, 'Twas madam, in her grogram gown.
Philemon was in great furprize,
And hardly could believe his eyes,
Amaz'd to fee her look fo prim;
And fhe admir'd as much at him.
Thus happy in their change of life
Were feveral years this man and wife: 150
When on a day, which prov'd their last,
Difcourfing o'er old stories past,
They went by chance, amidst their talk,
To the church-yard to take a walk;
When Baucis haftily cry'd out,
My dear, I fee your forehead fprout.
Sprout! quoth the man; what's this you tell us?
I hope you don't believe me jealous :
But yet, methinks, I feel it true ;
And re'ly, yours is budding too--
Nay, now I cannot ftir my
It feels as if 'twere taking root.
Description would but tire my Mufe; In fhort, they both were turn'd to yews. Old goodman Dobson of the green Remembers, he the trees has feen; He'll talk of them from noon to night, And
goes with folks to shew the fight; On Sundays, after ev'ning-prayer, He gathers all the parish there;
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