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 assum'd a sable hue, But being old, continued just As threadbare and as full of dust. His talk was now of tythes 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; 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 edg'd with Colberteen; Her petticoat, transform'd apace, Became black satin flounc'd with lace. Plain Goody would no longer down; 'Twas Madam, in her grogram gown. Philemon was in great surprise, 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, which prov'd their last,
Discoursing o'er 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 mejealous :
But yet methinks, I feel it true;
And really your's 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 were both turn'd to yews.
Old Goodman Dobson of the Green
Remembers he the trees has seen;
He'll talk of them from noon to night,
And goes with folks to show the sight:
On Sundays, after evening pray'r
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, died a-top, was stunted,
So the next parson stubb'd and burnt it.
HISTORY OF VANBRUGH'S HOUSE.
WHEN Mother Clud had rose from play,
And call'd to take the cards away,
Van saw, but seem'd not to regard,
How Miss pick'd every painted card,
And, busy both with hand and eye,
Soon rear'd a House two stories high.
Van's genius, without thought or lecture,
Is hugely turn'd to architecture;
He view'd the edifice, and smil'd,
Vow'd it was pretty for a child:
It was so perfect in its kind,
He kept the model in his mind.
But when he found the boys at play,
And saw them dabbling in their clay,
He stood behind a stall to lurk,
And mark the progress of their work;
With true delight observ'd them all
Raking up mud to build a wall:
The plan he much admir'd, and took
The model in his table-book;
Thought himself now exactly skill'd,
And so resolv'd a House to build,
A real House, with rooms and stairs,
Five times at least as big as theirs;
Taller than Miss's by two yards;
Not a sham thing of clay or cards:-
And so he did; for in awhile
He built up such a monstrous pile,
That no two chairmen could be found
Able to lift it from the ground.
Still at Whitehall it stands in view,
Just in the place where first it grew;
There all the little schoolboys run,
Envying to see themselves outdone.
From such deep rudiments as these
Van is become, by due degrees
For building fam'd, and justly reckon❜d,
At court, Vitruvius the Second:
No wonder, since wise authors show
That best foundations must be low:
And now the Duke has wisely ta'en him
To be his architect at Blenheim.
But, raillery for once apart,
If this rule holds in every art,
Of if his Grace were no more skill'd in
The art of battering walls than building,
We might expect to see next year
A mouse-trap-man chief engineer.
DESCRIPTION OF THE MORNING. 1712.
Now hardly here and there a hackney-coach
Appearing, show'd the ruddy Morn's approach:
Now Betty from her master's bed had flown,
And softly stole to discompose her own:
The slipshod 'prentice from his master's door
Had par'd the dirt, and sprinkled round the floor:
Now Moll had whirl'd her mop with dextrous airs,
Prepar'd to scrub the entry and the stairs:
The youth with broomy stumps began to trace The kennel's edge, where wheels had worn the place:
The small-coal man was heard with cadence deep,
Till drown'd in shriller notes of chimney-sweep:
Duns at his Lordship's gate began to meet,
And brick-dust Moll had scream'd through half the
The turnkey now his flock returning sees, [street:
Duly let out a-nights to steal for fees:
The watchful bailiffs take their silent stands,
And schoolboys lag with satchels in their hands.
SID HAMET THE MAGICIAN'S ROD.
THE Rod was but a harmless wand,
While Moses held it in his hand,
But soon as e'er he laid it down.
'Twas a devouring serpent grown.
Our great Magician, Hamet Sid,
Reverses what the prophet did;
His Rod was honest English wood,
That senseless in a corner stood,
Till, metamorphos'd by his grasp,
It grew an all-devouring asp;
Would hiss, and sting, and roll, and twist,
By the mere virtue of his fist;
But when he laid it down, as quick
Resum'd the figure of a stick.
So to her midnight feast the hag
Rides on a broomstick for a nag,
|