Innauguration Ode
Sing , Heavenly Muse, in nasal tones and clear
Such as New England's hills are wont to hear.
Reverberate through Freedom's sacred font,
The woodlands of New Hampshire and Vermont.
Sing, Heavenly Muse, for benefits bestowed.
(This is, I think, the way to start an ode.)
Oh, sing—and while you're at it, Heavenly Muse,
Add, too, the stately periods of Hughes.
And mingle with the outbursts of applause
The sharp sulphuric sentences of Dawes.
In short, O daughter of the sacred spring,
Sing!
Fling aloft the starry banner,
Rend the air with jubilation,
Welcome in a proper manner
Cal, the leader of our nation.
Welcome him with joy ecstatic,
Celebrate in manner hearty
(All except the Democratic Party.)
Servant, millionaire and sutler
Cheer for Slemp and Weeks and Butler,
Cheer in country and in city.
Four more years of sitting pretty.
Pepper, Roosevelt and Moses
Strew the path with festive roses.
Banker, business man and slavey
Cheer for four more years of gravy.
Rend the air with joy ecstatic,
Celebrate in manner hearty
(All except the Democratic
Party.)
There runs an ancient legend that is told
Throughout the rock-ribbed farmland of Vermont,
A tale of two grim tillers of the soil
Who labored side by side in honest toil
To keep themselves and families from want.
The first his friends and neighbors knew as Hi,
The other bore the simple name of Si.
For many years from early morn till night
Together in their quiet simple way
They labored at their humble tasks each day,
Linked with the bonds of friendship strong and tight
And firm as the green-clad mountains of their state.
One evening when their daily toil was o'er
They sat before their ivied farmhouse door,
Smoking their pipes with calm contented mien,
Enjoying the peaceful quiet of the scene.
Then, glancing at the dark and starless sky,
Hi gave a cough and murmured softly: “Si,
It looks like rain.”
A look of pain
Suffused Si's gaunt and melancholy face.
Without a word he rose and left the place.
The following day he said to Hi: “I'm through.
I can't work any longer here with you.”
And Hi, though filled with grief, said simply: “Why?”
“You talk too gol darned much,” retorted Si.
This is New England stock. The antiquarian
Boasts of its taciturnity and quiet.
Compared with it, the well-known peak on Darien
Would be a riot.
Down the street the band comes playing,
Drums are booming, trumpets braying.
Listen to the cheering!
Listen to them holler
At a man with a pipe and a funny trick collar.
Listen to the music and the cheering and applause
For Hell an' Maria,
Hell an' Maria,
Charley Hell an' Maria Dawes.
Over on the sidewalk, over in the crowd,
Two old gentlemen are weeping out loud.
One wears a skullcap; the other one there
Wears a broad-brimmed hat and curly hair.
The one in the skullcap weeps and moans
While the other one comforts him in silvery tones.
“Oh, dry those tears and stop that cryin',”
Says Williams Jennings to Charley Bryan.
“For I know that it's pretty sad, but wait:
There's another election in twenty-eight,
There's another one coming in thirty-two,
And they can't get along without me or you.
For the Democrats know that there's no use tryin'
To nominate a ticket unless they have a Bryan.”
Over on the sidewalk, over in the crowd,
Two old gentlemen are weeping out loud.
Weeping at the music and the cheering and applause
For Hell an' Maria,
Hell an' Maria,
Charley Hell an' Maria Dawes.
“What became of McAdoo?”
The Slide Trombone says to the Tuba.
He changed his name to Machado,
And now he's President of Cuba.”
Now come the officeholders, marching along
Singing a rollicking Republican song.
Postmasters, secretaries, men in public works,
Prohibition officers, office boys and clerks.
Singing their anthem while they're marching along
To the rhythm of their rollicking Republican song.
“Four more years of the old sap bucket,
Four more years of the old sap bucket,
Four more years of the old sap bucket,
And we'll all be true to Cal.”
(Out in Minnesota where the cattle browse,
Magnus Johnson is milking his cows.)
Slowly, solemnly, sedately,
To the throb of muffled drums,
Dignified, austere and stately,
Charles E. Hughes in silence comes.
From his tall majestic forehead
To his black and polished shoes,
Even Coolidge seems quite torrid
Next to Secretary Hughes.
(In New York, up in Albany, Governor Smith
Chuckles as he thinks of the Coolidge Myth.)
Over in the Senate Chamber, feeling full of tears,
Wheeler and La Follette sit and listen to the cheers,
Listen as the shouting through the Senate Chamber floats,
Sadly contemplating their electoral votes.
Says Wheeler to La Follette: “Well, it might have been much worse.
For although we were progressive we were running in reverse.”
La Follette says: “Ah, well I know the tendencies of mobs.
I'm glad that we had sense enough to hold on to our jobs.
Election Day will come again in nineteen twenty-eight.”
Says Wheeler to La Follette: “Well, we carried one State.”
(Sitting down in Wall Street, as quiet as a mouse,
Is a man who bet the contest would be thrown into the House.)
Four and twenty Democrats standing in the cold,
Thinking of the ballots that the Coolidge ticket polled.
Thinking of the pickings and the easy jobs they lost,
Four and twenty Democrats trembling from the frost.
Four more years of penury, four more years of want,
Four more years of freezing in the cold winds from Vermont.
Posing for the picture “When a Fellow Needs a Pal,”
Four and twenty Democrats Keeping Cool with Cal.
When Coolidge was in the Massachusetts Legislature
Tradition says he one time made a speech
Consisting of three sentences. Whereupon
They made him Speaker of the House.
And now, O Heavenly Muse, thy task is done.
Return once more unto thy sacred grove
Or wherever thou hangest out between elections.
Thy heavenly lyre, oh, place thou in dead storage.
We've done our best for Calvin, you and I.
Seldom has Emperor, President or King
Been welcomed with such a classy ode as this.
We've done our best, and now it's up to Cal.
And if he fails—well, all that I can say
Is, poetry has lost its old time kick,
And there isn't any gratitude in Presidents.
Such as New England's hills are wont to hear.
Reverberate through Freedom's sacred font,
The woodlands of New Hampshire and Vermont.
Sing, Heavenly Muse, for benefits bestowed.
(This is, I think, the way to start an ode.)
Oh, sing—and while you're at it, Heavenly Muse,
Add, too, the stately periods of Hughes.
And mingle with the outbursts of applause
The sharp sulphuric sentences of Dawes.
In short, O daughter of the sacred spring,
Sing!
Fling aloft the starry banner,
Rend the air with jubilation,
Welcome in a proper manner
Cal, the leader of our nation.
Welcome him with joy ecstatic,
Celebrate in manner hearty
(All except the Democratic Party.)
Servant, millionaire and sutler
Cheer for Slemp and Weeks and Butler,
Cheer in country and in city.
Four more years of sitting pretty.
Pepper, Roosevelt and Moses
Strew the path with festive roses.
Banker, business man and slavey
Cheer for four more years of gravy.
Rend the air with joy ecstatic,
Celebrate in manner hearty
(All except the Democratic
Party.)
There runs an ancient legend that is told
Throughout the rock-ribbed farmland of Vermont,
A tale of two grim tillers of the soil
Who labored side by side in honest toil
To keep themselves and families from want.
The first his friends and neighbors knew as Hi,
The other bore the simple name of Si.
For many years from early morn till night
Together in their quiet simple way
They labored at their humble tasks each day,
Linked with the bonds of friendship strong and tight
And firm as the green-clad mountains of their state.
One evening when their daily toil was o'er
They sat before their ivied farmhouse door,
Smoking their pipes with calm contented mien,
Enjoying the peaceful quiet of the scene.
Then, glancing at the dark and starless sky,
Hi gave a cough and murmured softly: “Si,
It looks like rain.”
A look of pain
Suffused Si's gaunt and melancholy face.
Without a word he rose and left the place.
The following day he said to Hi: “I'm through.
I can't work any longer here with you.”
And Hi, though filled with grief, said simply: “Why?”
“You talk too gol darned much,” retorted Si.
This is New England stock. The antiquarian
Boasts of its taciturnity and quiet.
Compared with it, the well-known peak on Darien
Would be a riot.
Down the street the band comes playing,
Drums are booming, trumpets braying.
Listen to the cheering!
Listen to them holler
At a man with a pipe and a funny trick collar.
Listen to the music and the cheering and applause
For Hell an' Maria,
Hell an' Maria,
Charley Hell an' Maria Dawes.
Over on the sidewalk, over in the crowd,
Two old gentlemen are weeping out loud.
One wears a skullcap; the other one there
Wears a broad-brimmed hat and curly hair.
The one in the skullcap weeps and moans
While the other one comforts him in silvery tones.
“Oh, dry those tears and stop that cryin',”
Says Williams Jennings to Charley Bryan.
“For I know that it's pretty sad, but wait:
There's another election in twenty-eight,
There's another one coming in thirty-two,
And they can't get along without me or you.
For the Democrats know that there's no use tryin'
To nominate a ticket unless they have a Bryan.”
Over on the sidewalk, over in the crowd,
Two old gentlemen are weeping out loud.
Weeping at the music and the cheering and applause
For Hell an' Maria,
Hell an' Maria,
Charley Hell an' Maria Dawes.
“What became of McAdoo?”
The Slide Trombone says to the Tuba.
He changed his name to Machado,
And now he's President of Cuba.”
Now come the officeholders, marching along
Singing a rollicking Republican song.
Postmasters, secretaries, men in public works,
Prohibition officers, office boys and clerks.
Singing their anthem while they're marching along
To the rhythm of their rollicking Republican song.
“Four more years of the old sap bucket,
Four more years of the old sap bucket,
Four more years of the old sap bucket,
And we'll all be true to Cal.”
(Out in Minnesota where the cattle browse,
Magnus Johnson is milking his cows.)
Slowly, solemnly, sedately,
To the throb of muffled drums,
Dignified, austere and stately,
Charles E. Hughes in silence comes.
From his tall majestic forehead
To his black and polished shoes,
Even Coolidge seems quite torrid
Next to Secretary Hughes.
(In New York, up in Albany, Governor Smith
Chuckles as he thinks of the Coolidge Myth.)
Over in the Senate Chamber, feeling full of tears,
Wheeler and La Follette sit and listen to the cheers,
Listen as the shouting through the Senate Chamber floats,
Sadly contemplating their electoral votes.
Says Wheeler to La Follette: “Well, it might have been much worse.
For although we were progressive we were running in reverse.”
La Follette says: “Ah, well I know the tendencies of mobs.
I'm glad that we had sense enough to hold on to our jobs.
Election Day will come again in nineteen twenty-eight.”
Says Wheeler to La Follette: “Well, we carried one State.”
(Sitting down in Wall Street, as quiet as a mouse,
Is a man who bet the contest would be thrown into the House.)
Four and twenty Democrats standing in the cold,
Thinking of the ballots that the Coolidge ticket polled.
Thinking of the pickings and the easy jobs they lost,
Four and twenty Democrats trembling from the frost.
Four more years of penury, four more years of want,
Four more years of freezing in the cold winds from Vermont.
Posing for the picture “When a Fellow Needs a Pal,”
Four and twenty Democrats Keeping Cool with Cal.
When Coolidge was in the Massachusetts Legislature
Tradition says he one time made a speech
Consisting of three sentences. Whereupon
They made him Speaker of the House.
And now, O Heavenly Muse, thy task is done.
Return once more unto thy sacred grove
Or wherever thou hangest out between elections.
Thy heavenly lyre, oh, place thou in dead storage.
We've done our best for Calvin, you and I.
Seldom has Emperor, President or King
Been welcomed with such a classy ode as this.
We've done our best, and now it's up to Cal.
And if he fails—well, all that I can say
Is, poetry has lost its old time kick,
And there isn't any gratitude in Presidents.
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