a winter night,
As authors on the legend write,
Two brother hermits, saints by trade;
Taking their tour in masquerade,
Disguis'd in tattered habits, went
To a small village down in Kent;
Where, in the stroller's canting strain,
They begg'd from door to door, in-vain;
Tri'd every tone might pity win,
But not a soul would let them in.

Our wandering saints, in woeful state,
Treated at this ungodly rate,
Having through all the village pass'd,
To a small cottage came at last,
Where dwelt a good old honest yoeman,
Call'd in the neighbourhood, Philemon;
Who kindly did these 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 the 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 them drink,
Fill'd a large jug up to the brink;
Then saw it fairly twice go round;
Yet (what is wonderful) they found,
'Twas still replenish'd to the top,
As if they had not touch'd a drop.

The good old couple were amaz'd,
And often on each other gaz'd;
For both were frighten'd to the heart,
And just began to cry--What art!
Then softly turn'd aside to view,
Whether the lights were turning blue,
The gentle pilgrims, soon aware on't,
Told them their calling and their errand;
"Good folks you need not be afraid;
"We are but saints," the hermit 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;
"While you see your cottage rise,
"And grow a church before your eyes."

They scarce had spoke, when fair and soft,
The roof began to move 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;
With upside down, doom'd there 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 strait against the steeple rear'd,
Became a clock, and still adher'd;
And, now, in love to household cares