"A leg of gold! what, of solid gold?"

Cried rich and poor, and young and old,-- And Master and Miss and Madam-- 'Twas the talk of 'Change--the Alley--the Bank-- And with men of scientific rank, It made as much stir as the fossil shank Of a Lizard coeval with Adam!

CXXVI.

Of course with Greenwich and Chelsea elves, Men who had lost a limb themselves, Its interest did not dwindle-- But Bill, and Ben, and Jack, and Tom Could hardly have spun more yarns therefrom, If the leg had been a spindle.

CXXVII.

Meanwhile the story went to and fro, Till, gathering like the ball of snow, By the time it got to Stratford-le-Bow, Through Exaggeration's touches, The Heiress and hope of the Kilmanseggs Was propp'd on _two_ fine Golden Legs, And a pair of Golden Crutches!

CXXVIII.

Never had Leg so great a run!

'Twas the "go" and the "Kick" thrown into one!

The mode--the new thing under the sun, The rage--the fancy--the passion!

Bonnets were named, and hats were worn, _A la_ Golden Leg instead of Leghorn, And stockings and shoes, Of golden hues, Took the lead in the walks of fashion!

CXXIX.

The Golden Leg had a vast career, It was sung and danced--and to show how near Low Folly to lofty approaches, Down to society's very dregs, The Belles of Wapping wore "Kilmanseggs,"

And St. Gile's Beaux sported Golden Legs In their pinchbeck pins and brooches!

HER FIRST STEP.

CXXX.

Supposing the Trunk and Limbs of Man Shared, on the allegorical plan, By the Passions that mark Humanity, Whichever might claim the head, or heart, The stomach, or any other part, The Legs would be seized by Vanity.

CXXXI.

There's Bardus, a six-foot column of fop, A lighthouse without any light atop, Whose height would attract beholders, If he had not lost some inches clear By looking down at his kerseymere, Ogling the limbs he holds so dear, Till he got a stoop in his shoulders.

CXXXII.

Talk of Art, of Science, or Books, And down go the everlasting looks, To his rural beauties so wedded!

Try him, wherever you will, you find His mind in his legs, and his legs in his mind, All prongs and folly--in short a kind Of fork--that is Fiddle-headed.

CXXXIII.

What wonder, then, if Miss Kilmansegg, With a splendid, brilliant, beautiful leg, Fit for the court of Scander-Beg, Disdain'd to hide it like Joan or Meg, In petticoats stuff'd or quilted?

Not she! 'twas her convalescent whim To dazzle the world with her precious limb,-- Nay, to go a little high-kilted.

CXXXIV.

So cards were sent for that sort of mob Where Tartars and Africans hob-and-nob, And the Cherokee talks of his cab and cob To Polish or Lapland lovers-- Cards like that hieroglyphical call To a geographical Fancy Ball On the recent Post-Office covers.

CXXXV.

For if Lion-hunters--and great ones too-- Would mob a savage from Latakoo, Or squeeze for a glimpse of Prince Le Boo, That unfortunate Sandwich scion-- Hundreds of first-rate people, no doubt, Would gladly, madly, rush to a rout That promised a Golden Lion!

HER FANCY BALL.

CXXXVI.

Of all the spirits of evil fame, That hurt the soul or injure the frame, And poison what's honest and hearty, There's none more needs a Mathew to preach A cooling, antiphlogistic speech, To praise and enforce A temperate course, Than the Evil Spirit of Party.

CXXXVII.

Go to the House of Commons, or Lords, And they seem to be busy with simple words In their popular sense or pedantic-- But, alas! with their cheers, and sneers, and jeers, They're really busy, whatever appears, Putting peas in each other's ears, To drive their enemies frantic!

CXXXVII.

Thus Tories like to worry the Whigs, Who treat them in turn like Schwalbach pigs, Giving them lashes, thrashes, and digs, With their writhing and pain delighted-- But after all that's said, and more, The malice and spite of Party are poor To the malice and spite of a party next door, To a party not invited.

CXXXIX.

On with the cap and out with the light, Weariness bids the world good night, At least for the usual season; But hark! a clatter of horses' heels; And Sleep and Silence are broken on wheels, Like Wilful Murder and Treason!

CXL.

Another crash--and the carriage goes-- Again poor Weariness seeks the repose That Nature demands, imperious; But Echo takes up the burden now, With a rattling chorus of row-de-dow-dow, Till Silence herself seems making a row, Like a Quaker gone delirious!

CXLI.

'Tis night--a winter night--and the stars Are shining like winkin'--Venus and Mars Are rolling along in their golden cars Through the sky's serene expansion-- But vainly the stars dispense their rays, Venus and Mars are lost in the blaze Of the Kilmanseggs' luminous mansion!

CXLII.