A Discontented Sugar Broker
A GENTLEMAN of City fameNow claims your kind attention;East India broking was his game,His name I shall not mention:No one of finely-pointed senseWould violate a confidence,And shall I goAnd do it? No!His name I shall not mention.
He had a trusty wife and true,And very cosy quarters,A manager, a boy or two,Six clerks, and seven porters.A broker must be doing well(As any lunatic can tell)Who can employAn active boy,Six clerks, and seven porters.
His knocker advertised no dun,No losses made him sulky,He had one sorrow—only one—He was extremely bulky.A man must be, I beg to state,Exceptionally fortunateWho owns his chiefAnd only griefIs—being very bulky.
“This load,” he’d say, “I cannot bear;I’m nineteen stone or twenty!Henceforward I’ll go in for airAnd exercise in plenty.”Most people think that, should it come,They can reduce a bulging tumTo measures fairBy taking airAnd exercise in plenty.
In every weather, every day,Dry, muddy, wet, or gritty,He took to dancing all the wayFrom Brompton to the City.You do not often get the chanceOf seeing sugar brokers danceFrom their abodeIn Fulham RoadThrough Brompton to the City.
He braved the gay and guileless laughOf children with their nusses,The loud uneducated chaffOf clerks on omnibuses.Against all minor things that rackA nicely-balanced mind, I’ll backThe noisy chaffAnd ill-bred laughOf clerks on omnibuses.
His friends, who heard his money chink,And saw the house he rented,And knew his wife, could never thinkWhat made him discontented.It never entered their pure mindsThat fads are of eccentric kinds,Nor would they ownThat fat aloneCould make one discontented.
“Your riches know no kind of pause,Your trade is fast advancing;You dance—but not for joy, becauseYou weep as you are dancing.To dance implies that man is glad,To weep implies that man is sad;But here are youWho do the two—You weep as you are dancing!”
His mania soon got noised aboutAnd into all the papers;His size increased beyond a doubtFor all his reckless capers:It may seem singular to you,But all his friends admit it true—The more he foundHis figure round,The more he cut his capers.
His bulk increased—no matter that—He tried the more to toss it—He never spoke of it as “fat,”But “adipose deposit.”Upon my word, it seems to meUnpardonable vanity(And worse than that)To call your fatAn “adipose deposit.”
At length his brawny knees gave way,And on the carpet sinking,Upon his shapeless back he layAnd kicked away like winking.Instead of seeing in his stateThe finger of unswerving Fate,He laboured stillTo work his will,And kicked away like winking.
His friends, disgusted with him now,Away in silence wended—I hardly like to tell you howThis dreadful story ended.The shocking sequel to impart,I must employ the limner’s art—If you would know,This sketch will showHow his exertions ended.
MORAL.
I hate to preach—I hate to prate—I’m no fanatic croaker,But learn contentment from the fateOf this East India broker.He’d everything a man of tasteCould ever want, except a waist;And discontentHis size anent,And bootless perseverance blind,Completely wrecked the peace of mindOf this East India broker.