Page:The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift, Volume 7.djvu/64

 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.