The kettle to the top was hoift,
And there flood faften'd to a joist,
But with the upfide down, to fhow
Its inclination for below:
In vain; for a fuperior force
Apply'd at bottom ftops its course :
Doom'd ever in fufpence to dwell,
'Tis now no kettle, but a bell.
A wooden jack, which had almost
Loft by disuse the art to roast,
A fudden alteration feels,
Increas'd by new inteftine wheels;
And, what exalts the wonder more,
The number made the motion flower.
The flier, though it had leaden feet,
Turn'd round fo quick you fcarce could fee 't';
But, flacken'd by some 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 thrill voice at noon, declares,
Warning the cookmaid not to burn
That roaft-meat, which it cannot turn.
The groaning-chair began to crawl,
Like a huge fnail, along the wall;
There stuck aloft in public view,
And with small change, a pulpit grew.
E 2
The porringers, that in a row
Hung high, and made a glittering show,
To a less 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 Robinhood,
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 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 difpos'd to fleep.
The cottage, by fuch feats 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 them thanks in homely ftyle;
Then faid, My houfe is grown fo fine,
Methinks, I ftill would call it mine.
I'm old, and fain would live at ease;
Make me the parfon if you please.
He spoke, and presently he feels
His grazier's coat fall down his heels:
*The tribes of Ifrael are fometimes diftinguifhed in country churches by the enfigns given to them by Jacob.
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, continued just
As thread-bare, and as full of dust.
His talk was now of tithes 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 chriftenings 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 ftood up firm for right divine;
Found his head fill'd with many a fyftem:
But claffic 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 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 the admir'd as much at him.
Thus happy in their change of life, Were feveral years this man and wife:
When on a day, which prov'd their laft,
Difcourfing o'er old ftories paft,
They went by chance, amid 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—
It feels as if 'twere taking root.
Description would but tire
In fhort, they both were turn'd to yews.
Old Goodman Dobfon of the green
Remembers, he the trees had feen;
He'll talk of them from noon till night,
And goes with folks to fhew 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 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 fcrubbed, dy'd a-top, was ftunted:
So the next parfon ftubb'd and burnt it.
On the fuppofed DEATH of PARTRIDGE, the Almanack-maker.
WELL; 'tis as Bickerstaff has guess'd,
Though we all took it for a jeft:
Partridge is dead; nay more, he dy'd
Ere he could prove the good 'fquire lied.
Strange, an aftrologer fhould die
Without one wonder in the sky!
Not one of all his crony ftars
To pay their duty at his hearse!
No meteor, no eclipfe appear'd!
No comet with a flaming beard!
The fun has rofe, and gone to bed,
Juft 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 fuch matter.
Some wits have wonder'd what analogy
There is 'twixt * cobling and aftrology;
How Partridge made his optics rise
From a fhoe-fole to reach the skies.
A lift the cobler's temples ties,
To keep the hair out of his eyes;
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