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CL.

And lo! the Heiress, Miss Kilmansegg,
With her splendid, brilliant, beautiful leg,
In the garb of a Goddess olden–
Like chaste Diana going to hunt,
With a golden spear–which of course was blunt,
And a tunic loop’d up to a gem in front,
To show the Leg that was Golden!

CLI.

Gold! still gold; her Crescent behold,
That should be silver, but would be gold;
And her robe’s auriferous spangles!
Her golden stomacher–how she would melt!
Her golden quiver, and golden belt,
Where a golden bugle dangles!

CLII.

And her jewell’d Garter! Oh Sin, oh Shame!
Let Pride and Vanity bear the blame,
That bring such blots on female fame!
But to be a true recorder,
Besides its thin transparent stuff,
The tunic was loop’d quite high enough
To give a glimpse of the Order!

CLIII.

But what have sin or shame to do
With a Golden Leg–and a stout one too?
Away with all Prudery’s panics!
That the precious metal, by thick and thin,
Will cover square acres of land or sin,
Is a fact made plain
Again and again,
In Morals as well as Mechanics.

CLIV.

A few, indeed, of her proper sex,
Who seem’d to feel her foot on their necks,
And fear’d their charms would meet with checks
From so rare and splendid a blazon–
A few cried “fie!”–and “forward”–and “bold!”
And said of the Leg it might be gold,
But to them it look’d like brazen!

CLV.

‘Twas hard they hinted for flesh and blood,
Virtue and Beauty, and all that’s good,
To strike to mere dross their topgallants–
But what were Beauty, or Virtue, or Worth,
Gentle manners, or gentle birth,
Nay, what the most talented head on earth
To a Leg worth fifty Talents!

CLVI.

But the men sang quite another hymn
Of glory and praise to the precious Limb–
Age, sordid Age, admired the whim
And its indecorum pardon’d–
While half of the young–ay, more than half–
Bow’d down and worshipp’d the Golden Calf,
Like the Jews when their hearts were harden’d.

CLVII.

A Golden Leg!–what fancies it fired!
What golden wishes and hopes inspired!
To give but a mere abridgment–
What a leg to leg-bail Embarrassment’s serf!
What a leg for a Leg to take on the turf!
What a leg for a marching regiment!

CLVIII.

A Golden Leg!–whatever Love sings,
‘Twas worth a bushel of “Plain Gold Rings”
With which the Romantic wheedles.
‘Twas worth all the legs in stockings and socks–
‘Twas a leg that might be put in the Stocks,
N.B.–Not the parish beadle’s!

CLIX.

And Lady K. nid-nodded her head,
Lapp’d in a turban fancy-bred,
Just like a love-apple huge and red,
Some Mussul-womanish mystery;
But whatever she meant
To represent,
She talked like the Muse of History.

CLX.

She told how the filial leg was lost;
And then how much the gold one cost;
With its weight to a Trojan fraction:
And how it took off, and how it put on;
And call’d on Devil, Duke, and Don,
Mahomet, Moses, and Prester John,
To notice its beautiful action.

CLXI.

And then of the Leg she went in quest;
And led it where the light was best;
And made it lay itself up to rest
In postures for painter’s studies:
It cost more tricks and trouble by half,
Than it takes to exhibit a six-legg’d Calf
To a boothful of country Cuddies.

CLXII.

Nor yet did the Heiress herself omit
The arts that help to make a hit,
And preserve a prominent station.
She talk’d and laugh’d far more than her share;
And took a part in “Rich and Rare
Were the gems she wore”–and the gems were there,
Like a Song with an Illustration.