When I grow up to be a man and wear whate'er I please,
Black-cloth and serge and Harris-tweed--I will have none of these;
For shaggy men wear Harris-tweed, so Harris-tweed won't do,
And fat commercial travellers are dressed in dingy blue;
Lack-lustre black to lawyers leave and sad souls in the City,
But I'll wear Linsey-Woolsey because it sounds so pretty.
I don't know what it looks like,
I don't know how it feels,
But Linsey-Woolsey to my fancy
Prettily appeals.
And when I find a lovely maid to settle all my cash on,
She will be much too beautiful to need the gauds of fashion.
No tinted tulle or taffeta, no silk or crêpe-de-chine
Will the maiden of my fancy wear--no chiffon, no sateen,
No muslin, no embroidery, no lace of costly price,
But she'll be clad in Dimity because it sounds so nice.
I don't know what it looks like,
I do not know its feel,
But a dimpled maid in Dimity
Was ever my ideal.
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