 | [Poems by Whittier in] A Study of Whittier's Apprenticeship as a Poet |  |
THE FAT MAN
Oh—wo for pursy gentlemen—
The short and thick of frame;
With tun-like bodies that would put
A Dutchman's vrou to shame!—
Wo—for the round and bulky man—
The greasy and the fat—
The five feet high by four feet broad—
A walking tallow vat!
The short and thick of frame;
With tun-like bodies that would put
A Dutchman's vrou to shame!—
Wo—for the round and bulky man—
The greasy and the fat—
The five feet high by four feet broad—
A walking tallow vat!
237
I have a handsome country-seat
And pleasant rooms in town,
I keep a noble pair of steeds,
For driving up and down—
My garb is of the costliest—
My steeds are dapple grey—
I've friends who sup with me by night,
And dine with me by day.
And pleasant rooms in town,
I keep a noble pair of steeds,
For driving up and down—
My garb is of the costliest—
My steeds are dapple grey—
I've friends who sup with me by night,
And dine with me by day.
But I am one of those who bear
The curse of fat with them,
Enveloping their choicest gifts
Like earth around a gem.
And then I have an altitude
Too Pygmean by far,—
Out-measuring in circumference,
My perpendicular.
The curse of fat with them,
Enveloping their choicest gifts
Like earth around a gem.
And then I have an altitude
Too Pygmean by far,—
Out-measuring in circumference,
My perpendicular.
And with a spirit all alive,
And sensitive and proud,
I bear my massy frame about
Amidst the jesting crowd;—
And some will smile and all will stare—
And some will roar with laughter;
And lanky skeletons will point
Their bony finger after.
And sensitive and proud,
I bear my massy frame about
Amidst the jesting crowd;—
And some will smile and all will stare—
And some will roar with laughter;
And lanky skeletons will point
Their bony finger after.
The ladies, too, are dumb with fear,
Or struggling with a smile—
Whene'er I make my awkward bow,
And talk of love the while,—
They turn them from my dashing greys,
And from my country seat—
And love each needy skeleton
That kneels before their feet.
Or struggling with a smile—
Whene'er I make my awkward bow,
And talk of love the while,—
They turn them from my dashing greys,
And from my country seat—
And love each needy skeleton
That kneels before their feet.
Oh—tell me not that mirth and joy
To giant bodies fall—
Your over-grown and mammoth men
Are melancholy all!
Nay—rather than “this hill of flesh”—
I'd be a Barber's post—
The mummy of an Esquimaux—
Or Calvin Edson's ghost.
To giant bodies fall—
Your over-grown and mammoth men
Are melancholy all!
Nay—rather than “this hill of flesh”—
I'd be a Barber's post—
The mummy of an Esquimaux—
Or Calvin Edson's ghost.
Haverhill Iris, January 28, 1832
| [Poems by Whittier in] A Study of Whittier's Apprenticeship as a Poet | |