A Leg of Gold—­solid gold throughout,
Nothing else, whether slim or stout,
  Should ever support her, God willing! 
She must—­she could—­she would have her whim,
Her father, she turn’d a deaf ear to him—­
  He might kill her—­she didn’t mind killing! 
He was welcome to cut off her other limb—­
  He might cut her all off with a shilling!

CXIV.

All other promised gifts were in vain. 
Golden Girdle, or Golden Chain,
She writhed with impatience more than pain,
  And utter’d “pshaws!” and “pishes!”
But a Leg of Gold as she lay in bed,
It danced before her—­it ran in her head! 
  It jump’d with her dearest wishes!

CXV.

“Gold—­gold—­gold!  Oh, let it be gold!”
Asleep or awake that tale she told,
  And when she grew delirious: 
Till her parents resolved to grant her wish,
If they melted down plate, and goblet, and dish,
  The case was getting so serious.

CXVI.

So a Leg was made in a comely mould,
Of gold, fine virgin glittering gold,
  As solid as man could make it—­
Solid in foot, and calf, and shank,
A prodigious sum of money it sank;
In fact ’twas a Branch of the family Bank,
  And no easy matter to break it.

CXVII.

All sterling metal—­not half-and-half,
The Goldsmith’s mark was stamp’d on the calf—­
  ’Twas pure as from Mexican barter! 
And to make it more costly, just over the knee,
Where another ligature used to be,
Was a circle of jewels, worth shillings to see,
  A new-fangled Badge of the Garter!

CXVIII.

’Twas a splendid, brilliant, beautiful Leg,
Fit for the Court of Scander-Beg,
That Precious Leg of Miss Kilmansegg! 
  For, thanks to parental bounty,
Secure from Mortification’s touch,
She stood on a Member that cost as much
  As a Member for all the County!

HER FAME.

CXIX.

To gratify stern ambition’s whims,
What hundreds and thousands of precious limbs
  On a field of battle we scatter! 
Sever’d by sword, or bullet, or saw,
Off they go, all bleeding and raw,—­
But the public seems to get the lock-jaw,
  So little is said on the matter!

CXX.

Legs, the tightest that ever were seen,
The tightest, the lightest, that danced on the green,
  Cutting capers to sweet Kitty Clover;
Shatter’d, scatter’d, cut, and bowl’d down,
Off they go, worse off for renown,
A line in the Times, or a talk about town,
  Than the leg that a fly runs over!