In ancient times, 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 night, As authors of the legend write, Two brother hermits, saints by trade, Taking their tour in masquerade, Disguis'd in tatter'd habits, went To a small village down in Kent; Where, in the strollers' canting strain, They begg'd from door to door in vain, Try'd ev'ry tone might pity win; But not a soul would let them in. 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 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 stepp'd aside to fetch 'em drink, Fill'd a large jug up to the brink, And saw it fairly twice go round; Yet (what was wonderful) they found 'Twas still replenished to the top, As if they ne'er had 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 burning blue. The gentle pilgrims, soon aware on't, Told them their calling and their errand: "Good folk, you need not be afraid, We are but saints," the hermits 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 shall see your cottage rise, And grow a church before your eyes." They scarce had spoke, when fair and soft, The roof began to mount aloft; Aloft rose ev'ry 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, And there stood fasten'd 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. A wooden jack, which had almost Lost by disuse the art to roast, A sudden alteration feels, Increas'd by new intestine wheels; And, what exalts the wonder more, The number made the motion slower. The flyer, though it had leaden feet, Turn'd round so quick you scarce could see't; But, slacken'd by some secret power, Now hardly moves an inch an hour. The jack and chimney, near ally'd, 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 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.