CV.

“As the twig is bent, the tree’s inclined,”
Is an adage often recall’d to mind,
  Referring to juvenile bias: 
And never so well is the verity seen,
As when to the weak, warp’d side we lean,
  While Life’s tempests and hurricanes try us.

CVI.

Even thus with Miss K. and her broken limb: 
By a very, very remarkable whim,
  She show’d her early tuition: 
While the buds of character came into blow
With a certain tinge that served to show
The nursery culture long ago,
  As the graft is known by fruition!

CVII.

For the King’s Physician, who nursed the case,
His verdict gave with an awful face,
  And three others concurr’d to egg it;
That the Patient to give old Death the slip,
Like the Pope, instead of a personal trip,
  Must send her Leg as a Legate.

CVIII.

The limb was doom’d—­it couldn’t be saved! 
And like other people the patient behaved,
Nay, bravely that cruel parting braved,
  Which makes some persons so falter,
They rather would part, without a groan,
With the flesh of their flesh, and bone of their bone,
  They obtain’d at St. George’s altar.

CIX.

But when it came to fitting the stump
With a proxy limb—­then flatly and plump
  She spoke, in the spirit olden;
She couldn’t—­she shouldn’t—­she wouldn’t have wood! 
Nor a leg of cork, if she never stood,
And she swore an oath, or something as good,
  The proxy limb should be golden!

CX.

A wooden leg! what, a sort of peg,
  For your common Jockeys and Jennies! 
No, no, her mother might worry and plague—­
Weep, go down on her knees, and beg,
But nothing would move Miss Kilmansegg! 
She could—­she would have a Golden Leg,
  If it cost ten thousand guineas!

CXI.

Wood indeed, in Forest or Park,
With its sylvan honors and feudal bark,
  Is an aristocratic article: 
But split and sawn, and hack’d about town,
Serving all needs of pauper or clown,
Trod on! stagger’d on!  Wood cut down
  Is vulgar—­fibre and particle!

CXII.

And Cork!—­when the noble Cork Tree shades
A lovely group of Castilian maids,
  ’Tis a thing for a song or sonnet!—­
But cork, as it stops the bottle of gin,
Or bungs the beer—­the small beer—­in,
It pierced her heart like a corking-pin,
  To think of standing upon it!

CXIII.