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 seem’d 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,
Return’d them 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 threadbare, 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,
Vamp’d in the preface and the text;
At christenings well could act his part,
And had the service all by heart;
Wish’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 homespun coifs, were seen
Good pinners edged with colberteen;
Her petticoat transform’d apace,
Became black satin, flounced with lace.
“Plain Goody” would no longer down,
’T was “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, amid 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 can not stir my foot;
It feels as if ’t were taking root.”
