Page:The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift, Volume 7.djvu/59



N 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, Tried every tone might pity win; But not a soul would let them in. Our wandering saints, in woeful state, Treated at this ungodly rate, Having through 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