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!