Her First Step

Supposing the Trunk and Limbs of ManShared, 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 beholdersIf he had not lost some inches clearBy 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 findHis mind in his legs, and his legs in his mind,All prongs and folly--in short a kindOf 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 whimTo dazzle the world with her precious limb,--Nay, to go a little high-kilted.

So cards were sent for that sort of mobWhere Tartars and Africans hob-and-nob,And the Cherokee talks of his cab and cobTo Polish or Lapland lovers--Cards like that hieroglyphical callTo a geographical Fancy BallOn 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 Lee Boo,That unfortunate Sandwich scion--Hundreds of first-rate people, no doubt,Would gladly, madly, rush to a rout,That promised a Golden Lion!