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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=426348" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Baucis And Philemon</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">IN ancient times, as story tells,<br>The saints would often leave their cells,<br>And stroll about, but hide their quality,<br>To try good people's hospitality.<br>It happened on a winter night,<br>As authors of the legend write,<br>Two brother hermits, saints by trade,<br>Taking their tour in masquerade,<br>Disguised in tattered habits, went<br>To a small village down in Kent;<br>Where, in the strollers' canting strain,<br>They begged from door to door in vain;<br>Tried every tone might pity win,<br>But not a soul would let them in.<br>Our wandering saints in woeful state,<br>Treated at this ungodly rate,<br>Having through all the village passed,<br>To a small cottage came at last,<br>Where dwelt a good honest old yeoman,<br>Called, in the neighbourhood, Philemon,<br>Who kindly did these saints invite<br>In his poor hut to pass the night;<br>And then the hospitable Sire<br>Bid goody Baucis mend the fire;<br>While he from out the chimney took<br>A flitch of bacon off the hook,<br>And freely from the fattest side<br>Cut out large slices to be fried;<br>Then stepped aside to fetch 'em drink,<br>Filled a large jug up to the brink,<br>And saw it fairly twice go round;<br>Yet (what is wonderful) they found<br>'Twas still replenished to the top,<br>As if they ne'er had touched a drop<br>The good old couple were amazed,<br>And often on each other gazed;<br>For both were frightened to the heart,<br>And just began to cry,—What art!<br>Then softly turned aside to view,<br>Whether the lights were burning blue.<br>The gentle pilgrims soon aware on't,<br>Told 'em their calling, and their errant;<br>'Good folks, you need not be afraid,<br>We are but saints,' the hermits said;<br>'No hurt shall come to you or yours;<br>But, for that pack of churlish boors,<br>Not fit to live on Christian ground,<br>They and their houses shall be drowned;<br>Whilst you shall see your cottage rise,<br>And grow a church before your eyes.'<br>They scarce had spoke; when fair and soft,<br>The roof began to mount aloft;<br>Aloft rose every beam and rafter,<br>The heavy wall climbed slowly after.<br>The chimney widened, and grew higher,<br>Became a steeple with a spire.<br>The kettle to the top was hoist,<br>And there stood fastened to a joist;<br>But with the upside down, to show<br>Its inclination for below.<br>In vain; for a superior force<br>Applied at bottom, stops its coarse,<br>Doomed ever in suspense to dwell,<br>'Tis now no kettle, but a bell.<br>A wooden jack, which had almost<br>Lost, by disuse, the art to roast,<br>A sudden alteration feels,<br>Increased by new intestine wheels;<br>And what exalts the wonder more,<br>The number made the motion slower.<br>The flyer, though 't had leaden feet,<br>Turned round so quick, you scarce could see 't;<br>But slackened by some secret power,<br>Now hardly moves an inch an hour.<br>The jack and chimney near allied,<br>Had never left each other's side;<br>The chimney to a steeple grown,<br>The jack would not be left alone;<br>But up against the steeple reared,<br>Became a clock, and still adhered;<br>And still its love to household cares<br>By a shrill voice at noon declares,<br>Warning the cook-maid not to burn<br>That roast meat which it cannot turn.<br>The groaning chair began to crawl,<br>Like a huge snail along the wall;<br>There stuck aloft in public view;<br>And with small change a pulpit grew.<br>The porringers, that in a row<br>Hung high, and made a glittering show,<br>To a less noble substance changed,<br>Were now but leathern buckets ranged.<br>The ballads pasted on the wall,<br>Of Joan of France, and English Moll,<br>Fair Rosamond, and Robin Hood,<br>The Little Children in the Wood,<br>Now seemed to look abundance better,<br>Improved in picture, size, and letter;<br>And high in order placed, describe<br>The heraldry of every tribe.<br>A bedstead of the antique mode,<br>Compact of timber, many a load,<br>Such as our ancestors did use,<br>Was metamorphosed into pews:<br>Which still their ancient nature keep,<br>By lodging folks disposed to sleep.<br>The cottage, by such feats as these,<br>Grown to a church by just degrees,<br>The hermits then desired their host<br>To ask for what he fancied most.<br>Philemon having paused a while,<br>Returned 'em thanks in homely style;<br>Then said, 'My house is grown so fine,<br>Methinks I still would call it mine:<br>I'm old, and fain would live at ease,<br>Make me the Parson, if you please.'<br>He spoke, and presently he feels<br>His grazier's coat fall down his heels;<br>He sees, yet hardly can believe,<br>About each arm a pudding sleeve;<br>His waistcoat to a cassock grew,<br>And both assumed a sable hue;<br>But being old, continued just<br>As thread-bare, and as full of dust.<br>His talk was now of tithes and dues;<br>He smoked his pipe and read the news;<br>Knew how to preach old sermons next,<br>Vamped in the preface and the text;<br>At christenings well could act his part,<br>And had the service all by heart;<br>Wished women might have children fast,<br>And thought whose sow had farrowed last<br>Against Dissenters would repine,<br>And stood up firm for Right divine.<br>Found his head filled with many a system,<br>But classic authors,—he ne'er missed 'em.<br>Thus having furbished up a parson,<br>Dame Baucis next they played their farce on.<br>Instead of home-spun coifs were seen<br>Good pinners edg'd with colberteen;<br>Her petticoat transformed apace,<br>Became black satin flounced with lace.<br>Plain Goody would no longer down,<br>'Twas Madam, in her grogram gown.<br>Philemon was in great surprise,<br>And hardly could believe his eyes,<br>Amazed to see her look so prim;<br>And she admired as much at him.<br>Thus, happy in their change of life,<br>Were several years this man and wife;<br>When on a day, which proved their last,<br>Discoursing o'er old stories past,<br>They went by chance amidst their talk,<br>To the church yard to take a walk;<br>When Baucis hastily cried out,<br>'My dear, I see your forehead sprout!'<br>'Sprout,' quoth the man, 'what's this you tell us?<br>I hope you don't believe me jealous,<br>But yet, methinks, I feel it true;<br>And really, yours is budding too -<br>Nay,—now I cannot stir my foot;<br>It feels as if 'twere taking root.'<br>Description would but tire my Muse;<br>In short, they both were turned to Yews.<br>Old Goodman Dobson of the green<br>Remembers he the trees has seen;<br>He'll talk of them from noon till night,<br>And goes with folks to show the sight;<br>On Sundays, after evening prayer,<br>He gathers all the parish there,<br>Points out the place of either Yew:<br>Here Baucis, there Philemon grew,<br>Till once a parson of our town,<br>To mend his barn, cut Baucis down;<br>At which, 'tis hard to be believed<br>How much the other tree was grieved,<br>Grow scrubby, died a-top, was stunted:<br>So the next parson stubbed and burnt it.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Jonathan+Swift">Jonathan Swift</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=426348" data-title="Baucis And Philemon de Jonathan Swift" data-description="IN ancient times, as story tells,
The saints would often leave their cells,
And stroll about, but hide their quality,
To try good people's hospitality.
It happened on a winter night,
As authors of the legend write,
Two brother hermits, saints by t..."></div>
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