In they go—­in jackets and cloaks,
Plumes and bonnets, turbans and toques,
  As if to a Congress of Nations: 
Greeks and Malays, with daggers and dirks,
Spaniards, Jews, Chinese, and Turks—­
Some like original foreign works,
  But mostly like bad translations.

CXLVI.

In they go, and to work like a pack,
Juan, Moses, and Shacabac,
Tom, and Jerry and Springheel’d Jack,—­
  For some of low Fancy are lovers—­
Skirting, zigzagging, casting about,
Here and there, and in and out,
With a crush, and a rush, for a full-bodied rout
  In one of the stiffest of covers.

CXLVII.

In they went, and hunted about,
Open-mouth’d like chub and trout,
And some with the upper lip thrust out,
  Like that fish for routing, a barbel—­
While Sir Jacob stood to welcome the crowd,
And rubb’d his hands, and smiled aloud,
And bow’d, and bow’d, and bow’d, and bow’d,
  Like a man who is sawing marble.

CXLVIII.

For Princes were there, and Noble Peers;
Dukes descended from Norman spears;
Earls that dated from early years;
  And lords in vast variety—­
Besides the Gentry both new and old—­
For people who stand on legs of gold
  Are sure to stand well with society.

CXLIX.

“But where—­where—­where?” with one accord,
Cried Moses and Mufti, Jack and my Lord,
  Wang-Fong and Il Bondocani—­
When slow, and heavy, and dead as a dump,
  They heard a foot begin to stump,
    Thump! lump! 
    Lump! thump! 
Like the Spectre in “Don Giovanni”!

CL.

And lo! the Heiress, Miss Kilmansegg,
With her splendid, brilliant, beautiful leg,
  In the garb of a Goddess olden—­
Like chaste Diana going to hunt,
With a golden spear—­which of course was blunt,
And a tunic loop’d up to a gem in front,
  To show the Leg that was Golden!

CLI.

Gold! still gold; her Crescent behold,
That should be silver, but would be gold;
  And her robe’s auriferous spangles! 
Her golden stomacher—­how she would melt! 
Her golden quiver, and golden belt,
  Where a golden bugle dangles!

CLII.

And her jewell’d Garter!  Oh Sin, oh Shame! 
Let Pride and Vanity bear the blame,
That bring such blots on female fame! 
  But to be a true recorder,
Besides its thin transparent stuff,
The tunic was loop’d quite high enough
  To give a glimpse of the Order!

CLIII.

But what have sin or shame to do
With a Golden Leg—­and a stout one too? 
  Away with all Prudery’s panics! 
That the precious metal, by thick and thin,
Will cover square acres of land or sin,
    Is a fact made plain
    Again and again,
  In Morals as well as Mechanics.