But, being old, continued just
As threadbare, and as full of dust.
His talk was now of tithes and dues:
He smok'd his pipe, and read the news;
Knew how to preach old sermons next,
Vamp'd in the preface and the text;
At christenings 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 miss'd '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 sattin flounc'd 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 hini.
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, amid 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 folks 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 scrubbed, died atop, was stunted;
So the next parson stubb'd and burnt it.
ON THE SUPPOSED DEATH OF PARTRIDGE, THE AL
WELL; 'tis as Bickerstaff has guess'd,
Though we all took it for a jest:
Partridge is dead; nay more he died
Ere he could prove the good 'squire lied.
Strange, an astrologer should die Without one wonder in the sky : Not one of all his crony stars Το pay their duty at his hearse! No meteor, no eclipse appear'd! No comet with a flaming beard! The sun has rose, and gone to bed, Just as if Partridge were not dead; Nor hid himself behind the moon To make a dreadful night at noon. He at fit periods walks through Aries, Howe'er our earthly motion varies; And twice a year he'll cut th' equator, As if there had been no such matter. Some wits have wonder'd what analogy There is 'twixt cobbling* and astrology; How Partridge made his optics rise From a shoe-sole to reach the skies. A list the cobbler's temples ties, To keep the hair out of his eyes; From whence 'tis plain, the diadem That princes wear derives from them: And therefore crowns are now-a-days Adorn'd with golden stars and rays; Which plainly shows the near alliance "Twixt cobbling and the planets' science.
Besides, that slow pac'd sign Boötes, As 'tis miscall'd, we know not who 'tis : But Partridge ended all disputes; He knew his trade, and call'd it boots.†
The horned moon, which heretofore Upon their shoes the Romans wore,
Partridge was a cobbler. SWIFT.
See his Almanac. SWIFT.
Whose wideness kept their toes from corns,
And whence we claim our shoeing-horns,
Shows how the art of cobbling bears
A near resemblance to the spheres.
A scrap of parchment hung by geometry,
(A great refiner in barometry)
Can, like the stars, foretell the weather;
And what is parchment else but leather?
Which an astrologer might use
Either for almanacs or shoes.
Thus Partridge, by his wit and parts,
At once did practise both these arts:
And as the boding owl (or rather
The bat, because her wings are leather)
Steals from her private cell by night,
And flies about the candle-light;
So learned Partridge could as well
Creep in the dark from leathern cell,
And in his fancy fly as far,
To peep upon a twinkling star.
Besides, he could confound the spheres,
And set the planets by the ears;
To show his skill, he Mars could join
To Venus in aspect malign;
Then call in Mercury for aid,
And cure the wounds that Venus made.
Great scholars have in Lucian read,
When Philip king of Greece was dead,
His soul and spirit did divide,
And each part took a different side:
One rose a star; the other fell
Beneath, and mended shoes in Hell.
Thus Partridge still shines in each art,
The cobbling and star-gazing part,
And is install'd as good a star
any of the Cæsars are.
Triumphant star! some pity show
On cobblers militant below,
Whoni roguish boys, in stormy nights,
Torment by pissing out their lights,
Or through a chink convey their smoke,
Inclos'd artificers to choke.
Thou, high exalted in thy sphere,
Mayst follow still thy calling there.
To thee the Bull will lend his hide,
By Phoebus newly tann'd and dry'd:
For thee they Argo's hulk will tax,
And
scrape her pitchy sides for wax;
Then Ariadne kindly lends
Her braided hair to make thee ends;
The points of Sagittarius' dart
Turns to an awl by heavenly art;
And Vulcan, wheedled by his wife,
Will forge for thee a paring knife.
For want of room by Virgo's side,
She'll strain a point, and sit* astride.
To take thee kindly in between;
And then the Sigus will be Thirteen.
HIERE, five feet deep, lies on his back A cobbler, starmonger, and quack; Who, to the stars in pure good will, Does to his best look upward still. Weep, all you customers that use His pills, his almanacs, or shoes:
* Tibi brachia contrahit ingens Scorpius," &c.
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