A McDonogh suit for your son to wear
Ah! Madam, they’re not for sale.
And he who dons must never doff—
As a nun who takes the veil.
‘Tis a matter of years to make the fit,
And the cloth is rich and rare,
With “Lyle-thread” running through warp and woof,
And woven with scrupulous care.
With labor and patience, with wisdom and love,
Every thread is drawn to its place.
'Tis dyed in the colors of honor and truth.
With industry’s infinite grace.
The dirt and grime of strife and of toil
Only Brighten its marvelous hue;
But the Shiftless shame of an idle life
Will rot it through and through.
Measures we take, but not with a tape—
For we tailor to fit a man’s soul
With a garment to wear, thro’ life’s arduous race,
And bring him in safe at the goal.
Our trade-mark is woven into every suit.
‘Tis a vow that each wearer must make,
How low or how high in the world he may be
“We Give Something More Than We Take."
Yet we have no weaver of magical skill,
Our tailor’s no Fairyland elf.
We’ve merely discovered that to wear such a suit
The wearer must make it himself.
—Eustace S. Glascock, 1879