[Footnote 1: Here follows the later version of the poem, as printed in all editions of Swift's works.--_W. E. B_.]
[Footnote 2: Sir John Vanbrugh at that time held the office of Clarencieux king of arms.--_Scott_.]
[Footnote 3: Several of Vanbrugh's plays are taken from Molière.--_Scott_. This is a very loose statement. That Vanbrugh was indebted for some of his plays to French sources is true; but the only one taken from Molière was "The Mistake," adapted from "Le Dépit Amoureux"; while his two best plays, "The Relapse" and "The Provoked Wife," were original.--_W. E. B_.]
ON THE EVER-LAMENTED LOSS OF THE TWO YEW-TREES IN THE PARISH OF CHILTHORNE, SOMERSET. 1706. IMITATED FROM THE EIGHTH BOOK OF OVID
In ancient time, as story tells, The saints would often leave their cells, And stroll about, but hide their quality, To try good people's hospitality. It happen'd on a winter's night, As authors of the legend write, Two brother hermits, saints by trade, Taking their tour in masquerade, Came to a village hard by Rixham,[2] Ragged and not a groat betwixt 'em. It rain'd as hard as it could pour, Yet they were forced to walk an hour From house to house, wet to the skin, Before one soul would let 'em in. They call'd at every door: "Good people, My comrade's blind, and I'm a creeple! Here we lie starving in the street, 'Twould grieve a body's heart to see't, No Christian would turn out a beast, In such a dreadful night at least; Give us but straw and let us lie In yonder barn to keep us dry." Thus in the stroller's usual cant, They begg'd relief, which none would grant. No creature valued what they said, One family was gone to bed: The master bawled out half asleep, "You fellows, what a noise you keep! So many beggars pass this way, We can't be quiet, night nor day; We cannot serve you every one; Pray take your answer, and be gone." One swore he'd send 'em to the stocks; A third could not forbear his mocks; But bawl'd as loud as he could roar "You're on the wrong side of the door!" One surly clown look't out and said, "I'll fling the p--pot on your head: You sha'nt come here, nor get a sous! You look like rogues would rob a house. Can't you go work, or serve the King? You blind and lame! 'Tis no such thing. That's but a counterfeit sore leg! For shame! two sturdy rascals beg! If I come down, _I'll_ spoil your trick, And cure you both with a good stick." Our wand'ring saints, in woful state, Treated at this ungodly rate, Having thro' all the village past, To a small cottage came at last Where dwelt a good old honest ye'man, Call'd thereabout good man Philemon; Who kindly did the saints invite In his poor house to pass the night; And then the hospitable sire Bid Goody Baucis mend the fire; Whilst 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; Which tost up in a pan with batter, And served up in an earthen platter, Quoth Baucis, "This is wholesome fare, Eat, honest friends, and never spare, And if we find our victuals fail, We can but make it out in ale." To a small kilderkin of beer, Brew'd for the good time of the year, Philemon, by his wife's consent, Stept with a jug, and made a vent, And having fill'd it to the brink, Invited both the saints to drink. When they had took a second draught, Behold, a miracle was wrought; For, Baucis with amazement found, Although the jug had twice gone round, It still was full up to the top, As they ne'er had drunk a drop. You may be sure so strange a sight, Put the old people in a fright: Philemon whisper'd to his wife, "These men are--Saints--I'll lay my life!" The strangers overheard, and said, "You're in the right--but be'nt afraid: 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 village shall be drown'd; Whilst you shall see your cottage rise, And grow a church before your eyes." Scarce had they spoke, when fair and soft, The roof began to mount aloft; Aloft rose ev'ry beam and rafter; The heavy wall went clambering after. The chimney widen'd, and grew higher, Became a steeple with a spire. The kettle to the top was hoist, And there stood fastened to a joist, But with the upside down, to show Its inclination for below: In vain; for a superior force Applied at bottom stops its course: Doom'd ever in suspense to dwell, 'Tis now no kettle, but a bell. The wooden jack, which had almost Lost by disuse the art to roast, A sudden alteration feels, Increas'd by new intestine wheels; But what adds to the wonder more, The number made the motion slower.