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!