ALL JOIN IN SINGING:
_"THE POLITICO'S ODE"_
_(To the tune that the Old Cow died on)_
_Count Luie hums the air an octave lower with a self-satisfied smile, thinking he is singing ba.s.s:_
We Filipinos are a n.o.ble race, With aspirations soaring to the sky; The love of country glows on every face, And philanthropic love from every eye.
The life G.o.d gave, we know how to enjoy; If left alone, 'twere bliss without alloy, But these _Americanos_ come along And try to make us think that right is wrong:
They say we ought to toil from morn till night, And seem to think fiestas are all wrong; They kick because we let our roosters fight.
And make Work! Work!! the burden of their song.
But why should we be toiling, What need our hands of soiling, While plenteous fruits are growing; With bounteous Nature flowing?
Taft says we are artistic, which is true; We see no need of everlasting toil, Our minds have higher things always in view Than delving in the black and dirty soil.
To be a.s.semblymen is our desire, Or, failing that, we want some office high'r.
That's why we want th' _Americano_ band Hustled, forthwith, from out our suff'ring land:
We want America to guard our state, Because we couldn't do it all alone; We want the offices at any rate We'll eat the meat and let them pick the bone While they are us defending; With chicken fights unending We'll pa.s.s our days in pleasure; We'll drink from joy's full measure.
A DEMOCRATIC WAKE.
_Count Luie:_ . . . . . _A Democratic Wheel-horse (Toast Master)._ _Sir Obreon:_ . . . . . _A Counsellor._ _Sir La Mutt:_ . . . . _A Literatus._ _Filipino Il.u.s.trados and Politicos._ _Several died-in-the-wool Democrats._
_Scene: Hotel de Francosa._
COUNT LUIE: n.o.ble compatriots, I greet thee well.
When war's ensanguined plain in tears of blood Weeps for the fallen in a worthy cause, 'Twere well for us bereaved to sing their praise And thus commemorate their sacrifice.
In all great battles, triumph oft doth hinge On questions small, but oft of great import; No matter if the sacrifice be great, So long as victory doth greet our clan.
We trembled at the clamours of the mob And feared results, from its prophetic tone; But now we laugh to scorn their idle boasts, For we from out the fleshpots still can feed.
And now in concert we would fain rejoice, While mourning for the fallen in the fray.
Hence, if some loyal soul can requ'em voice, 'Twere fit and proper in this fun'ral hour.
One consolation, disappointment soothes: With fewer numbers in our shattered ranks, Appointments to positions are the same, And so each patriot holds a _flusher hand_.
A DEMOCRAT: But, sire, it were a sacrifice most vain.
Had renegades from out our glorious clan Not pictured formerly in public mind That rule Republican indeed were wise.
And so dissatisfaction, like to yeast, Deep in the thoughtless mob did swell to burst Because our party purposed to at once Enfranchise this unhappy down-trod race.
SIR OBREON: But should we here our dirty linen air, And so a weapon place in varlet hand?
Methinks 'twere wise to bury in the past Those petty broils and bravely forward march.
COUNT LUIE: Ah! it were easy for a looker-on To counsel peace between a man and wife, But were he in the broil himself involved, Philosophy were physic all too weak To cure the wounds made by a rasping tongue, Which time doth canker as the cancer grows Until at last the surgeon with his knife Alone can the distemper dire outroot.
SIR LA MUTT: Count Louie, thou hast voiced my very thought!
Traitors who fellows.h.i.+p with filthy graft And find one single virtue in the creed Of these Republicans who long have ruled These Islands with despotic, cruel hand, Until their tyranny doth smell to Heav'n, Indeed should find no place to lay their heads Within the bounds of Democratic fold.
SIR OBREON: Ah, lack-a-day! If thus we fail to rise Above the narrow prejudice whose birth Took place, alas, beneath warm southern skies, Then we must be content to walk the plank When two years hence the people seal our doom.
Success, indeed, should be our only aim; Hence bury childish griefs deep in the grave.
A DEMOCRAT: Enough, my friends, enough! But we did come To mingle joy and grief o'er the results That follow combat at the public polls: Grief for the vanquished, joy for party spoils.
SIR LA MUTT: But Sire, why should we mourn for those who fell?
Those turncoats of the money-loving North Deserve the fate that traitor e'er should know.
We of the South did loyally uphold Our honor in the combat, for but one Did fall before the golden calf, and he Deep in Louisiana's shades did dwell, Where sugar sweet did blind the public eye.
SIR OBREON: And can it be that thou dost not discern That else we from the North do draw support, Our party will, as in the dreary past, From out the pale in vain with hungry eyes Behold our enemies safely entrenched Lapping with greedy tongue successe's broth From out the flesh-pets, which we, fool-like, placed Before them by our squabling party feuds.
COUNT LUIE: Sir Obreon, methinks thy mental grasp Of things politic is indeed but dim.
The "Const.i.tution" is a weapon grand.
The Democratic party when in war, To closer weld the bonds which held the slave, E'en then did show earnest solicitude Lest the cold-blooded North should not observe That sacred instrument, but it should break By sending men of war from out their states To subjugate us of the knightly South.
Our party hath indeed a record grand.
Its _flexibility_ to all demands Doth admiration claim from all the world.
Today it loud proclaims "sixteen to one;"
Tomorrow to the golden calf it kneels.
Today those stars we wors.h.i.+p in our flag As emblematic of each sovereign state; Tomorrow we demand the "stars and bars"
Supplant them as Imperialistic sign.
A DEMOCRAT: But would not that involve the speedy death Of that grand song which we have learned to love, The song which doth demand that those bright stars Shall wave in triumph through the ages long?
COUNT LUIE: Oh we could subst.i.tute for it our hymn Which fired paternal hearts in sixty-one; The "Bonny Blue Flag" doth have a smoother ring, Or "Dixy" might supplant the time-worn song!
SIR LA MUTT: Ah "Dixie" were indeed a n.o.ble air And caryeth upon its varied strains Our mun'ries back to those embattled days When our forebears did war a vandal host.
A DEMOCRAT (_with wool not deeply dyed_) I fear the people's hearts in northers climes Are wedded to the flag as it did wave When they were battling for the nation's life And ne'er such innovation would approve.
SIR LA MUTT: When we like game-c.o.c.ks strut and fiercely crow, These men _for sake of peace_ e'er knuckle down Fear not, for we are in the saddle now, And so the charger yieldeth to the spur.
COUNT LOUIE: (_continues earnestly_) And when the debt gigantic which was made To war our fathers till they bit the dust, Matured, our party instinct did invent A method to repudiate the claim By paying greenback printed nice and clean, But which with gold would never be redeemed.