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. 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. Talk of Art, of Science, or Books, And down go the everlasting looks, To his crural 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. 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. 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. 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! |