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,