Size and Tears

When on the sandy shore I sit,Beside the salt sea-wave,And fall into a weeping fitBecause I dare not shave—A little whisper at my earEnquires the reason of my fear.

I answer "If that ruffian Jones,Should recognise me here,He'd bellow out my name in tonesOffensive to the ear:He chaffs me so on being stout(A thing that always puts me out)."

Ah me! I see him on the cliff!Farewell, farewell to hope,If he should look this way, and ifHe's got his telescope!To whatsoever place I flee,My odious rival follows me!

For every night, and everywhere,I meet him out at dinner;And when I've found some charming fair,And vowed to die or win her,The wretch (he's thin and I am stout)Is sure to come and cut me out!

The girls (just like them!) all agreeTo praise J. Jones, Esquire:I ask them what on earth they seeAbout him to admire?They cry "He is so sleek and slim,It's quite a treat to look at him!"

They vanish in tobacco smoke,Those visionary maids—I feel a sharp and sudden pokeBetween the shoulder-blades—"Why, Brown, my boy! You're growing stout!"(I told you he would find me out!)

"My growth is not your business, Sir!""No more it is, my boy!But if it's yours, as I infer,Why, Brown, I give you joy!A man whose business prospers soIs just the sort of man to know!

"It's hardly safe, though, talking here—I'd best get out of reach:For such a weight as yours, I fear,Must shortly sink the beach!"—Insult me thus because I'm stout!I vow I'll go and call him out!