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 seemed to look abundance better, Improved in picture, size, and letter;And high in order placed, describe The 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 a while, Returned 'em 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 thread-bare, 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, Vamped in the preface and the text;At christenings well could act his part, And had the service all by heart;Wished women might have children fast, And thought whose sow had farrowed last Against Dissenters would repine, And stood up firm for Right divine.
Found his head filled with many a system, But classic authors, - he ne'er missed 'em.
Thus having furbished up a parson, Dame Baucis next they played their farce on.
Instead of home-spun coifs were seen Good pinners edg'd with colberteen;Her petticoat transformed 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 church yard to take a walk;When Baucis hastily cried 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 true;And really, 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 turned to Yews.
Old Goodman Dobson of the green Remembers he the trees has 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, Grow scrubby, died a-top, was stunted:
So the next parson stubbed and burnt it.
