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.