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 happened on a winter night,As authors of the legend write,Two brother hermits, saints by trade,Taking their tour in masquerade,Disguised in tattered habits, wentTo a small village down in Kent;Where, in the strollers' canting strain,They begged from door to door in vain;Tried every tone might pity win,But not a soul would let them in.