THE SEASIDE PHOTOGRAPHER
I do not mean the Kodak fiend,
Who takes snap-shots of ladies dipping,
And gloats o'er sundry views he's gleaned
Of amatory couples "tripping."
No, not these playful amateurs
I sing of, but the serious artist,
Who spreads upon the beach his lures,
What time the season's at its smartest.
His tongue is glib, his terms are cheap,
For ninepence while you wait he'll take you;
Posterity shall, marv'lling, keep
The "tin-type" masterpiece he'll make you.
What though his camera be antique,
His dark-room just a nose-bag humble,
What if his tripod legs are weak,
And threaten constantly to tumble.
No swain nor maiden can withstand
His invitation arch, insidious,
To pose al fresco on the strand—
His clientèle are not fastidious.
"You are so lovely", says the wretch,
"Your picture will be quite entrancing!"
And to the lady in the sketch
I overheard him thus romancing.
