Sivut kuvina

A sudden alteration feels,
Increas'd by new intestine wheels;
And, what exalts the wonder more,
The pumber made the motion slower,
The flier, though't had leaden feet,
Turn'd round so quick you scarce could see't;
But, slacken'd by some secret pow'r,
Now hardly moves an inch an liour.
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 rearid,
Became a clock, and still adherd;
And still its love to household cares,
By a shrill voice at noon, declares,
Warning the cookmaid not to burn
That roast meat, which it cannot turn.

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 porringers, that in a row
Hung high, and made a glittring show,
To a less noble substance chang'd,
Were now but leathern bnckets rang'd.

The ballads, pasted on the wall,
Of Joan of France, and English Mall,
Fair Rosamond, and Robinhood,
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 ancient 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 fancied most.
Philemon, having paus'd awhile,
Return'd them thanks in homely style;
Then said, 'My house is grown so fine,
Methinks, I still would call it mine.
I'm old, and fain would 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 waistcoat to a cassock grew,
And both assum'd a sable hue;
But, being old, continu'd just
As threadbare, and as full of dust.
His talk was now of tithes 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 christ'nings 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.

Thas happy in their change of life,
Were sev'ral years this man and wife:
When on a day, which prov'd their last,
Discoursing o'er old stories past,
They went by chance amid 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 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 goodman Dobson of the green
Remembers he the trees has seen ;
He'll talk of them from noon till night,
And goes with folks to show the sight;

[ocr errors]

On Sundays, after ev’ning 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 scubbed, died atop, was stonted;
So the next parson stubb'd and burnt it.



[ocr errors]

All-bounteous Heaven,' Castalio cries,
With bended knees, and lifted eyes,
When shall I have the power to bless,
And raise up Merit in distress ?'
How do our hearts deceive us here!
He gets ten thousand pounds a year.
With this the pious youth is able
To build, and plant, and keep a table.
But then, the poor he must not treat;
Who asks the wretch, that wants to eat?
Alas! to ease their woes he wishes,
But cannot live without ten dishes.
Though six would serve as well, 'tis true;
But, one must live as others do.
He now feels wants, unknown before,
Wants still increasing with his store.
The good Castalio must provide
Brocade, and jewels, for his bride;
Her toilet shines with plate embossid,
W bat sums her lace and linen cost!

The clothes, that must his person grace,
Shine with embroidery and lace.
The costly pride of Persian looms,
And Guido's paiutings, grace his rooms.
His wealth Castalio will not waste,
But must have every thing in taste.
He's an economist confess’d,
But what he buys must be the best,
For common use, a set of plate;
Old china, when he dines in state.
A coach and six, to take the air,
Besides a chariot, and chair.
All those important calls supplied,
Calls of necessity, not pride,
His income's regularly spent;
He scarcely saves to pay his rent.
No man alive would do more good,
Or give more freely, if he could.
He grieves, whene'er the wretched sue,
But what can poor Castalio do?
Would Heaven but send ten thousand more,
He'd give-just as he did before. Mary Barber.

THE OLD GENTRY That all from Adam first began,

None but ungodly Whiston doubts; And that his son and his son's son,

Were all but ploughmen, clowns, and louts. Each, when his rastic pains began,

To merit pleaded equal right; 'Twas only who left off at noon,

Or who went on to work till night.

« EdellinenJatka »