WHEN on the sandy shore I sit,
　　　　Beside the salt sea-wave,
　　And fall into a weeping fit
　　　　Because I dare not shave -
　　A little whisper at my ear
　　Enquires the reason of my fear.

　　I answer "If that ruffian Jones
　　　　Should recognise me here,
　　He'd bellow out my name in tones
　　　　Offensive 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 if
　　　　He'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 agree
　　　　To praise J. Jones, Esquire:
　　I ask them what on earth they see
　　　　About 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 poke
Between the shoulder-blades -
"Why, Brown, my boy! Your 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 so,
Is 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!