Philemon, having paused a while,
Return’d them thanks in homely style;
Then said, “My house is grown so fine,
Methinks, I still would call it mine. 
I’m old, and fain would live at ease;
Make me the parson if you please.” 
  He spoke, and presently he feels
His grazier’s coat fall down his heels: 
He sees, yet hardly can believe,
About each arm a pudding sleeve;
His waistcoat to a cassock grew,
And both assumed a sable hue;
But, being old, continued just
As threadbare, and as full of dust. 
His talk was now of tithes and dues: 
Could smoke his pipe, and read the news;
Knew how to preach old sermons next,
Vamp’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;”
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;
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,
[5]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.

[Footnote 1:  This is the version of the poem as altered by Swift in accordance with Addison’s suggestions.—­W.  E. B.]

[Footnote 2:  La Pucelle d’Orleans.  See “Hudibras,” “Lady’s Answer,” verse 285, and note in Grey’s edition, ii, 439.—­W.  E. B.]