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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
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 65
Loft 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 flower.
70 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 ally'd,
Had never left each other'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 adher'd;
And still its love to houshold cares,
By a thrill voice at noon, declares,
Warning the cookmaid not to burn
That roast-meat, which it cannot turn.
The groaning-chair began to crawl,
Like a huge fuail, 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 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 Robinhood,
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 every 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 ancient nature keep,
By lodging folks dispos'd to fleep.
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 moft.
Philemon, having paus'd a while,
Return’d them thanks in homely style;
Then said, My house is grown fo fine,
Methinks, I still would call it mine.
I'm old, and fain would live at ease;
Make me the parson if
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 caffock grew
And both assum'd a fable hue;
But, being old, continued just
As thread-bare, and as full of dust.
His talk was now of tithes and dues :
He smok'd 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;
With'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 furbish'd up a parson,
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 fiounc'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 several years this man and wife :
When on a day, whieh prov'd their last,
Discoursing o'er old stories past,
They went by chance, amid their talk,
To the church-yard to take a walk;
When Baucis hastily cry'd out,
155 My dear, I see
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 —
160 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 Goodman Dobson of the green
Remembers, he che trees had seen;
He'll talk of them from noon till night,
And goes with folks to thew the fight;
On Sundays, after evening-prayer,
He gathers all the parish there;
Points out the place of either yew;
Here Baucis, there Philemon, grew:
Till önce a parson of our town,
To mend his barn, cut Baucis down;
At which, 'tis hard to be believ'd
175 How much the other tree was griev’d, Grew scrubbed, dy'd a-top, was ftunted: So the next parson stubb'd and burnt it.
On the supposed Death of PARTRIDGE, the
WELL; ’tis as Bickerstaff has guess’d,
Though we all took it for a jest:
Partridge is dead; nay more, he dy'd
Ere he could prove the good 'squire lied.
Strange, an astrologer should die
Without one wonder in the sky!
Not one of all his
pay their duty at his hearse !
No meteor, no eclipfe appear'd!
No comet with a flaming beard!
The sun has rose, and gone to bed,
Just as if Partridge were not dead;
Nor hid himself behind the moon
To make a dreadful night at noon.
He at fit periods walks through Aries,
Howe'er our earthly motion varies;
And twice a year he'll cut th' equator,
As if there had been no such matter.
Some wits have wonder'd what analogy
There is 'twixt * cobling and astrology;
How Partridge made his optics rise
From a shoe-sole to reach the skies.
A lift the cobler's temples ties,
To keep the hair out of his eyes ;
• Partridge was a cobler.