And the old man, looking sadly Across the garden-lawn, Where here and there a dew-drop Yet glittered in the dawn, Said “Go to the Adelphi, And see the ‘Colleen Bawn.’ “The word is due to Boucicault— The theory is his, Where Life becomes a Spasm, And History a Whiz: If that is not Sensation, I don’t know what it is. “Now try your hand, ere Fancy Have lost its present glow—” “And then,” his grandson added, “We’ll publish it, you know: Green cloth—gold-lettered at the back— In duodecimo!” Then proudly smiled that old man To see the eager lad Rush madly for his pen and ink And for his blotting-pad— But, when he thought of _publishing_, His face grew stern and sad. [Picture: His face grew stern and sad] SIZE AND TEARS [Picture: When on the sandy shore I sit] 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! [Picture: He’s thin and I am stout] 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! [Picture: For such a weight as yours . . .] ATALANTA IN CAMDEN-TOWN