The Ballade Of The Automobile

When our yacht sails seaward on steady keel     And the wind is moist with breath of brine     And our laughter tells of our perfect weal,     We may carol the praises of ruby wine;     But if, automobiling, my woes combine     And fuel gives out in my road-machine     And it's sixteen miles to that home of mine     Then ho! For a gallon of gasoline!     When our coach rides smoothly on iron-shod wheel     With a deft touch guiding each taut drawn line     And the inn ahead holds a royal meal,     We may carol the praises of ruby wine;     But when, on some long and steep incline,     In a manner entirely unforeseen     The motor stops with a last sad whine     Then ho! For a gallon of gasoline!     When the air is crisp and the brooks congeal     And our sleigh glides on with a speed divine     While the gay bells echo with peal on peal,     We may carol the praises of ruby wine;     But when, with perverseness most condign,     In the same harsh snowstorm, cold and keen,     My auto stops at the six-mile sign     Then ho! For a gallon of gasoline! Envoy     When yacht or Coach Club fellows dine     We may carol the praises of ruby wine;     But when Automobile Clubmen convene     Then ho! For a gallon of gasoline!