BAUCIS AND PHILEMON. Imitated, From the Eighth Book of OVID. Jonathan Swift Alexander Huber Editor Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford
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Eighteenth-Century Poetry Archive
Taylor Institution Library St Giles' Oxford OX1 3NA UK info@eighteenthcenturypoetry.org https://www.eighteenthcenturypoetry.org/
Oxford This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. T39454 Swift, Jonathan, 1667-1745. Miscellanies in PROSE and VERSE [poems only]. London printed for John Morphew, near Stationers Hall 1711 pp. 377-387. [14],416p.; 8⁰.

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BAUCIS AND PHILEMON . Imitated , From the Eighth Book of OVID . Written , 1706. In antient Times , as Story tells , The Saints would often leave their Cells . And strole about , but hide their Quality , To try good People's Hospitality . IT happen'd on a Winter Night , As Authors of the Legend write ; Two Brother Hermits , Saints by Trade , Taking their Tour in Masquerade ; Disguis'd in tatter'd Habits , went To a small Village down in Kent ; Where , in the Strolers Canting Strain , They beg'd from Door to Door in vain ; Try'd ev'ry Tone might Pity win , But not a Soul would let them in . OUR wand'ring Saints in woful State , Treated at this ungodly Rate , Having thro' all the Village pass'd , To a small Cottage came at last ; Where dwelt a good old honest Yeoman , Call'd , in the Neighbourhood , Philemon . Who kindly did the Saints invite In his Poor Hut to pass the Night ; And then the Hospitable Sire Bid Goody Baucis mend the Fire ; While He from out of Chimney took A Flitch of Bacon off the Hook ; And freely from the fattest Side Cut out large Slices to be fry'd ; Then stept aside to fetch 'em Drink , Fill'd a large Jug up to the Brink ; And saw it fairly twice go round ; Yet ( what is wonderful ) they found , 'Twas still replenished to the Top , As if they ne'er had toucht a Drop , The good old Couple was amaz'd , And often on each other gaz'd ; For both were frighted to the Heart , And just began to cry ; — What ar't Then softly turn'd aside to view , Whether the Lights were burning blue . The gentle Pilgrims soon aware on't , Told 'em their Calling , and their Errant : Good Folks , you need not be afraid , We are but Saints , the Hermits said ; No Hurt shall come to You , or Yours ; But , for that Pack of churlish Boors , Not fit to live on Christian Ground , They and their Houses shall be drown'd : Whilst you shall see your Cottage rise , And grow a Church before your Eyes . THEY scarce had Spoke ; when , fair and soft , The Roof began to mount aloft ; Aloft rose ev'ry Beam and Rafter , The heavy Wall climb'd slowly after THE Chimney widen'd , and grew higher , Became a Steeple with a Spire . THE Kettle to the Top was hoist , And there stood fast'ned to a Joist : But with the Upside down , to shew Its Inclinations 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 Lost , 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 slow'r : The Flyer , tho't had Leaden Feet , Turn'd round so quick , you scarce cou'd 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 wou'd 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 shrill Voice at Noon declares , Warning the Cook-maid , not to burn That Roast-meat which it cannot turn . THE Groaning Chair began to crawl Like an huge Snail along the Wall ; There stuck aloft , in Publick View , And with small Change , a Pulpit grew . THE Porringers , that in a Row Hung high , and made a glitt'ring 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 Robin Hood , 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 ev'ry 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 antient Nature keep ; By lodging Folks dispos'd to Sleep . 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 most : Philemon , having paus'd a while , Return'd 'em Thanks in homely Stile ; Then said ; my House is grown so Fine , Methinks , I still wou'd call it mine : I'm Old , and fain wou'd 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 Wastcoat to a Cassock grew , And both assum'd a Sable Hue ; But being Old , continu'd just As Thread-bare , and as full of Dust . His Talk was now of Tythes and Dues , Cou'd smoak his Pipe , and read the News ; Knew how to preach old Sermons next , Vampt in the Preface and the Text ; At Christnings 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 wou'd repine , And stood up firm for Right Divine : Found his Head fill'd with many a System , But Classick Authors — he ne'er miss'd e'em . THUS having furbish'd up a Parson , Dame Baucis next they play'd their Farce on : Instead of Home-spun Coifs were seen , Good Pinners edg'd with Colberteen : Her Petticoat transform'd apace , Became Black Sattin , Flounc'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 serveral Years this Man and Wife , When on a Day , which prov'd their last , Discoursing on old Stories past , They went by chance , amidst their Talk , To the Church-yard , to take a walk ; When Baucis hastily cry'd 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 ture ; And re'ly , 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 turn'd to Yews . Old Good-man Dobson of the Green Remembers he the Trees has seen ; He'll talk of them from Noon till Night , And goes with Folks to shew the Sight : On Sundays , after Ev'ning 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 believ'd , How much the other Tree was griev'd , Grew Scrubby , dy'd a-top , was stunted : So , the next Parson stub'd and burnt it .