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!  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 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!