The chimney to a fteeple grown,
The jack wou'd 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 a huge snail, along the wall;
There ftuck 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,
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.
* Of the twelve tribesof Ifrael, which in country churches are fometimes diftinguished by the
enfigns appropraited to them by Jacob on his death-bed.
A bedstead of the antique mode,
Compact of timber many a load,
Such as our ancestors did ufe,
Was metamorphos'd into pews;
Which still their ancient nature keep
By lodging folks difpos'd to fleep.
The cottage by fuch feats as thefe
Grown to a church by juft degrees,
The hermits then defir'd their hoft
To ask for what he fancy'd most.
Philemon, having paus'd a while,
Return'd 'em thanks in homely ftyle;
Then faid, my houfe is grown fo fine,
Methinks, I ftill wou'd call it mine:
I'm old, and fain wou'd live at eafe;
Make me the parfon, if you please.
He spoke; and prefently he feels His grazier's coat fall down his heels ; He fees, yet hardly can believe, About each arm a pudding-fleeve; His waistcoat to a caffock grew, And both affum'd a fable hue; But, being old, continu'd just As thread-bare, and as full of duft. His talk was now of tythes and dues : He fmok'd his pipe, and read the news; Knew how to preach old fermons next, Vamp'd in the preface and the text;
At chrift'nings well could act his part,
And had the fervice all by heart;
Wish'd women might have children fast,
And thought whofe fow had farrow'd laft;
Againft diffenters would repine,
And stood up firm for right divine;
Found his head fill'd with many a fyftem:
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.
Inftead of home-fpun coifs, were seen
Good pinners edg'd with colberteen ;
Her petticoat, transform'd a-pace,
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 fev'ral years this man and wife;
When on a day, which prov'd their last,
Difcourfing o'er old ftories 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 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 ftir my foot;
It feels as if 'twere taking root.
Defcription would but tire my muse;
In fhort, they both were turn'd to yews.
Old goodman Dobfon of the green
Remembers, he the trees has feen;
He'll talk of them from noon till night,
And with folks to fhew the fight;
goes
On Sundays, after ev'ning pray'r,
He gathers all the parish there;
Points out the place of either yew;
Here Baucis, there Philemon grew:
Till once a parfon 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 fcrubby, dy'd a-top, was ftunted;
So the next parfon ftubb'd and burnt it.
In Imitation of Virgil's Georgicks.
AREFUL obfervers may foretel the hour
(By fure prognofticks) when to dread a
fhow'r.
While rain depends, the penfive cat gives o'er
Her frolicks, and purfues her tail no more.
Returning home at night, you'll find the fink
Strike your offended sense with double ftink.
If you be wife, then go not far to dine
You'll spend in coach-hire more than fave in
A coming fhow'r your fhooting corns prefage,
Old aches throb, your hollow tooth will rage:
Saunt'ring in coffee-house is Dulman feen;
He damns the climate, and complains of spleen.
Mean while the South, rifing with dabbled
wings,
A fable cloud athwart the welkin flings,
That fwill'd more liquor than it could contain,
And, like a drunkard, gives it up again.
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