That holds your life-like image.
You shuffle your prodigious feet
Thro’ love-scene, chase, or scrimmage.
As gazing on each comic act
I stare at your perfection,
I find it hard to face the fact
That you’re a mere projection.
I’ve seen you as an artist rare,
With brush and paint-smear’d palette;
I’ve seen you fan the empty air
With ill-intention’d mallet.
I’ve watch’d you woo a winsome fay
(You must a dream to her be),
But ne’er have caught you in a play
Without that cane and derby!
Dear lad, I trust your happiness
May be like that you give us,
And since ripe years the mirthful bless,
That you may long outlive us.
May you the smiles of Fortune see,
Nor know what want of cash is;
And may your times of trouble be
As short as your moustaches!
I’d like to meet you, Charles, old chap,
Tho’ vast the space dividing;
Yet I must merely sit and clap
At your fantastic gliding.
But tho’ you’re far away, we know,
You still have pow’r to rouse us:
Your films can pack a picture-show