The Fishing Outfit
 

You may talk of stylish raiment,
    You may boast your broadcloth fine,
And the price you gave in payment
    May be treble that of mine.
But there's one suit I'd not trade you
    Though it's shabby and it's thin,
For the garb your tailor made you:
         That's the tattered,
         Mud-bespattered
    Suit that I go fishing in.

There's no king in silks and laces
    And with jewels on his breast,
With whom I would alter places.
    There's no man so richly dressed
Or so like a fashion panel
    That, his luxuries to win,
I would swap my shirt of flannel
         And the rusty,
         Frayed and dusty
    Suit that I go fishing in.

'Tis an outfit meant for pleasure;
    It is freedom's raiment, too;
It's a garb that I shall treasure
    Till my time of life is through.
Though perhaps it looks the saddest
    Of all robes for mortal skin,
I am proudest and I'm gladdest
         In that easy,
         Old and greasy
    Suit that I go fishing in.