Widen'd and gather'd at his wrist, But, being old, continued just As threadbare, and as full of dust. A shambling awkward gait he took, With a demure dejected look, Talk't of his offerings, tythes, and dues, Could smoke and drink and read the news, Or sell a goose at the next town, Decently hid beneath his gown. Contriv'd to preach old sermons next, Chang'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;" Carried it to his equals higher, But most obedient to the squire. Found his head fill'd with many a system; But classic authors,--he ne'er mist '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;[4] Her petticoat, transform'd apace, Became black satin, flounced 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. Thus happy in their change of life, Were several years this man and wife: When on a day, which prov'd their last, Discoursing o'er old stories past, They went by chance, amidst their talk, To the churchyard, to take a walk; When Baucis hastily cry'd 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 folk to show the sight; On Sundays, after evening prayer, 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 scrubby, dy'd a-top, was stunted, So the next parson stubb'd and burnt it.