At Worthing an exile from Geraldine G —,
How aimless, how wretched an exile is he!
Promenades are not even prunella and leather
To lovers, if lovers can’ t foot them together.
He flies the parade, sad by ocean he stands,
He traces a “Geraldine G” on the sands.
But a G, tho’ her lov’ d patronymic is Green,
“I will not betray thee, my own Geraldine.”
The fortunes of men have a time and a tide,
And Fate, the old fury, will not be denied;
That name was, of course, soon wip’ d out by the sea,—
And she jilted the exile, did Geraldine G —.
They meet, but they never have spoken since that,—
He hopes she is happy — he knows she is fat;
She woo’ d on the shore, now is wed in the Strand,
And I — it was I wrote her name on the sand!