"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. The flyer, altho't had leaden feet, Would turn so quick you scarce could see't; But, now stopt by some hidden powers, Moves round but twice in twice twelve hours, While in the station of a jack, 'Twas never known to turn its back, A friend in turns and windings tried, Nor ever left the chimney'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 adher'd; 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 insect, up the wall; There stuck, and to a pulpit grew, But kept its matter and its hue, And mindful of its ancient state, Still groans while tattling gossips prate. The mortar only chang'd its name, In its old shape a font became. The porringers, that in a row, Hung high, and made a glitt'ring show, To a less noble substance chang'd, Were now but leathern buckets rang'd. The ballads, pasted on the wall, Of Chevy Chase, and English Mall,[3] Fair Rosamond, and Robin Hood, The little Children in the Wood, Enlarged in picture, size, and letter, And painted, lookt abundance better, And now the heraldry describe Of a churchwarden, or a tribe. A bedstead of the antique mode, Composed of timber many a load, Such as our grandfathers did use, Was metamorphos'd into pews; Which yet their former virtue keep By lodging folk disposed to sleep. The cottage, with such feats as these, Grown to a church by just degrees, The holy men desired their host To ask for what he fancied most. Philemon, having paused a while, Replied in complimental style: "Your goodness, more than my desert, Makes you take all things in good part: You've raised a church here in a minute, And I would fain continue in it; I'm good for little at my days, Make me the parson if you please." He spoke, and presently he feels His grazier's coat reach down his heels; The sleeves new border'd with a list,