[Footnote 1:  I here give the original version of this poem, which Forster found in Swift’s handwriting at Narford; and which has never been published.  It is well known that, at Addison’s suggestion, Swift made extensive changes in this, “one of the happiest of his poems,” concerning which Forster says, in his “Life of Swift,” at p. 165:  “The poem, as printed, contains one hundred and seventy-eight lines; the poem, as I found it at Narford, has two hundred and thirty; and the changes in the latter bringing it into the condition of the former, by which only it has been thus far known, comprise the omission of ninety-six lines, the addition of forty-four, and the alteration of twenty-two.  The question can now be discussed whether or not the changes were improvements, and, in my opinion, the decision must be adverse to Addison.”—­W.  E. B.]

[Footnote 2:  The “village hard by Rixham” of the original has as little connection with “Chilthorne” as the “village down in Kent” of the altered version, and Swift had probably no better reason than his rhyme for either.—­Forster.]

[Footnote 3:  See the next poem for note on this line.  Chevy Chase seems more suitable to the characters than the Joan of Arc of the altered version.—­W.  E. B.]

[Footnote 4:  A lace so called after the celebrated French Minister, M. Colbert Planche’s “Costume,” p. 395.—­W.  E. B.]

BAUCIS AND PHILEMON[1]

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 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.