lors, ah, how vain
The task to name the splendid hues that in that vest obtain!
Go, view the rainbow and recount the glories of the sight
And number all the radiances that in its glow unite,
And then, when they are counted, with pride be it confessed
They're nil beside the splendor of the Will J. Davis vest.

Sometimes the gorgeous pattern is a sportive pumpkin vine,
At other times the lily and the ivy intertwine:
And then again the ground is white with purple polka dots
Or else a dainty lavender with red congestive spots--
In short, there is no color, hue, or shade you could suggest
That doesn't in due time occur in a Will J. Davis vest.

Now William is not handsome--he's told he's just like me.
And in one respect I think he is, for he's as good as good can be!
Yet, while I find my chances with the girls are precious slim,
The women-folks go wildly galivanting after him:
And after serious study of the problem I have guessed
That the secret of this frenzy is the Will J. Davis vest.

I've stood in Colorado and looked on peaks of snow
While prisoned torrents made their moan two thousand feet below:
The Simplon pass and prodigies Vesuvian have I done,
And gazed in rock-bound Norway upon the midnight sun--
Yet at no time such wonderment, such transports filled my breast
As when I fixed my orbs upon a Will J. Davis vest.

All vainly have I hunted this worldly sphere around
For a waistcoat like that waistcoat, but that waistcoat can't be found!
The Frenchman shrugs his shoulders and the German answers "nein,"
When I try the haberdasheries on the Seine and on the Rhine,
And the truckling British tradesman having trotted out his best
Is forced to own he can't compete with the Will J. Davis vest.

But better yet, Dear William, than this garb of which I sing
Is a gift which God has given you, and that's a priceless thing.
What stuff we mortals spin and weave, though pleasing to the eye,
Doth presently corrupt, to be forgotten by and by.
One thing, and one alone, survives old time's remorseless test--
The valor of a heart like that which beats beneath that vest!_

Playgoers of these by-gone days will remember the name of Kate Claxton
with varying degrees of pleasure. She was an actress of what was then
known as the Union Square Theatre type--a type that preceded the
Augustin Daly school and was strong in emotional roles. With the late
Charles H. Thorne,