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.

Size and Tears

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?