Of baggy ante-bellums.
For, when Britannia first in wrath arose,
I took a vow:—So long as these poor clo's
Together, though reduced to just a mesh, hold,
Never will I, till Victory's trump rings clear
(Save when I purchase military gear),
Cross any tailor's threshold.
Yet, gazing on the garb you figure in,
Shining and perfect as a new-born pin—
The frock-coat built to dazzle gods and men, Sir,