’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! 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. 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! 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! 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 talk’d like the Muse of History. 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. 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. 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. She even stood up with a Count of France To dance--alas!--the measures we dance When Vanity plays the Piper! Vanity, Vanity, apt to betray, And lead all sorts of legs astray, Wood, or metal, or human clay,-- Since Satan first play’d the Viper! But first she doff’d her hunting gear, And favour’d Tom Tug with her golden spear To row with down the river-- A Bonze had her golden bow to hold; A Hermit her belt and bugle of gold; And an Abbot her golden quiver.