irly twice go round;
Yet (what is wonderful!) they found
'Twas still replenish'd to the top,
As if they ne'er had touch'd a drop.
The good old couple were amaz'd,
And often on each other gaz'd;
For both were frightened to the heart,
And just began to cry, 'What ar't!'
Then softly turn'd aside to view
Whether the lights were burning blue.
'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 every 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 fasten'd to a joist;
Doom'd ever in suspense 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;
The jack and chimney, near allied,
Had never left each other's side:
The chimney to a steeple grown,
The jack would not be left alone;
But up against the steeple rear'd,
Became a clock, and still adhered.
The groaning chair began to crawl,
Like a huge snail, along the wall;
There stuck aloft in public view,
And with small change a pulpit grew.
The cottage, by such feats as these,
Grown to a church by just degrees,
The hermits then desired the host
To ask for what he fancied most.
Philemon, having paus'd awhile,
Return'd them thanks in homely style:
'I'm old, and fain would live at ease;
Make me the parson, if you please.'
Thus happy in their change of life
Were several 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 churchyard 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 budd