The Eagle Tavern is situated in an appropriate locality in the City-road, not far from a lunatic asylum, and contiguous to a workhouse. From time immemorial the Cockneys have hastened thither to enjoy themselves. Children are taught to say-

“Up and down the City-road,
In and out the Eagle,
That s the way the money goes,
Pop goes the weasel.”

And the apprentice or clerk, fresh from the country, and anxious to see life, generally commences with a visit to the Grecian Saloon – Eagle Tavern. As a rule, I do not think what are termed fast men go much to theatres. To sit out a five-act tragedy and then a farce is a bore which only quiet old fogies and people of a domestic turn can endure; and even where, as in the Grecian Saloon, you have dancing, and singing, and drinking added, it is not the fast men, but the family parties, that make it pay. There you see Smith, Brown, Jones, and Robinson, with their respective partners and the dear pledges of their well-regulated loves. They come early, sit out Jack Shepherd with a resolution worthy of a better cause, listen to the singing from the Music Hall, return again to witness the closing theatrical performances, and enjoy all the old stage tricks as if they had not heard them for the last fifty years. These worthy creatures see a splendour in the Grecian Saloon which I do not. Then there are the juvenile swells. Anxious mothers in the country, fearing the contaminations of London and the ruin it has brought on other sons, lodge them in remote Islington, or Hoxton, still more remote. It is in vain they do so. The Haymarket may be far off, but the Grecian Saloon is near; and the young hopefuls come in at half-price, for six- pence, and smoke their cigars, and do their pale ale, and adopt the slang and the vices of their betters with too much ease. And then there are the unfortunates from the City-road, with painted faces, brazen looks, and gorgeous silks; mercenary in every thought and feeling, and with hearts hard as adamant. God help the lad that gets entangled with such as they!

The Night Side of London – The Eagle Tavern, by J. Ewing Ritchie, 1858

Since their invention, bicycles and their riders became the subject of satire. Punch magazine particularly enjoyed ridiculing them. They also became useful stage props in theatre and the focus of many songs.

Let’s Have A Ride on Your Bicycle was issued (on 78rpm) in 1953, so, historically, it’s much newer than other items on this website. But Max Miller was Great Britain’s most famous Music Hall artist, and our country’s famous Music Hall tradition hails from the mid-19th century, founded in the saloon bars of pubs. While the theatre was more formal (with a separate bar), in a Music Hall you’d sit at a table and could drink and smoke while watching the show. The most famous establishment was The Grecian Saloon, at The Eagle public house in City Rd in London, its name etched into memories of generations of British children because of Pop goes the Weasel.


Max Miller was Britain’s top music hall comedian in the late 1930s to the late 1950s. Nicknamed the Cheeky Chappie, Miller was known for his risque jokes and gaudy suits. Born Thomas Henry Sargent in 1894, in Hereford Street, Brighton, Miller became notorious for double entendres which saw him banned from the BBC. His jokes were reputedly written in two notebooks, white for ‘clean’ humour, blue for ‘adult’ jokes. He had the habit – to avoid censorship – of stopping before the end of a sentence which could only end with a dirty joke so he could then rebuke the audience for their ‘dirty minds.’ He was known for outlandish outfits, generally patterned plus fours and matching long jacket, a trilby hat and kipper tie. He was a popular singer of comedy songs, his most famous being Mary From the Dairy, his signature tune. He appeared in 14 films and made three Royal Variety Show appearances.

In real life, he was bourgeois, almost puritan, not allowing bad language in dressing-rooms. At home, he lived in privacy, devoted to his surprisingly posh wife, and fond of keeping parrots. He gave donations to blind charities as he had been temporarily blinded in Mesopotamia during the First World War and never knew if he would recover his sight. But these were kept secret. In old age, he said : ‘Me, Max Miller, I’m nothing. But the Cheeky Chappie, he’ll live for ever.’ He told a Sunday paper: ‘I’ve got enough money to last me the rest of my life – if I die tomorrow.’ Soon afterwards, on 7th May 1963, he died at home at 25 Burlington Street, Brighton, from a heart ailment; he had been cared for by his wife Kathleen Marsh.



As bicycles captured the public imagination soon after their invention, they became a popular ‘vehicle’ for the subject of contemporary songs.


The idea of women riding velocipedes was particularly contentious, at first because it was an outrageous idea for women to ride a ‘man’s vehicle’ and, subsequently, because of conservative ideas about female attire.


But there’s one inescapable fact about cycling that’s not usually mentioned in its 19th century history – cycling a very sociable activity. In Victorian times it provided wonderful opportunities to meet members of the opposite sex, sometimes unchaperoned. I’m sure it often lead to declarations such as ‘Sweetheart I Love None But You.’

Bicycle manufacturers soon capitalized on the popularity of cycles in songs. For example, The Fowler Cycle Co sponsored the Cyclists National Grand March

The sheet music below, for the United States Wheel March, was composed to advertise a bicycle called the United States Wheel. In addition, Bancroft the Magician helped promote the company.

In fact, all sorts of entertainers were used in the 1890s for cycle company promotion, including trick cyclists, overweight or midget cyclists, magicians …in fact, anyone who helped the product stand out from the competition.


Daisy Bell is surely the best-known bicycle song. Written by the British composer and cycle enthusiast Harry Dacre, it has an interesting history, as you can read below.

There is a flower within my heart
Daisy, Daisy
Planted one day by a glancing dart
Planted by Daisy Bell

Whether she loves me or loves me not
Sometimes it’s hard to tell
Yet I am longing to share the lot
Of beautiful Daisy Bell

Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer do
I’m half crazy all for the love of you
It won’t be a stylish marriage
I can’t afford a carriage
But you’ll look sweet upon the seat
Of a bicycle built for two

We will go ‘tandem’ as man and wife
Daisy, Daisy
Ped’ling away down the road of life
I and my Daisy Bell

When the road’s dark, we can both despise
Policemen and lamps as well
There are bright lights in the dazzling eyes
Of beautiful Daisy Bell


I will stand by you in “wheel” or woe
Daisy, Daisy
You’ll be the bell(e) which I’ll ring you know
Sweet little Daisy Bell

You’ll take the lead in each trip we take
Then if I don’t do well
I will permit you to use the brake
My beautiful Daisy Bell.



As well as featuring in songs, the humble bicycle has, over the years, also been ‘instrumental’ in making music. Here are a few examples…




Bicycles continued to be used as gimmicks in entertainment. Ray Sinatra – Frank’s cousin – had an orchestra and his own network radio program called Cycling the Kilocycles in the mid-1930s. Using Silver Kings and other upmarket American cycles of the day, they appeared on stage on bicycles as the Ray Sinatra Cycling Orchestra.




I have a large library of research notes and pictures regarding bicycles in songs. This is an introduction. In due course, I’ll create a separate website on the subject, and add a link from this page.



LYRA CYCLUS or The Bards and the Bicycle 

Being a Collection of Merry and Melodious Metrical Conceits about THE WHEEL 

Selected and Arranged by EDMOND REDMOND, ROCHESTER N Y, 1897


Without intending an obvious pun, one may be
permitted to observe that the Bicycle is most de-
cidedly a revolutionary agent. In sundry regards
the consequences of its advent have been amazing.
Viewed from a purely material standpoint, it has
wrought wondrous transformations in the daily
walk and conversation of the man and woman of
the period. In fact, they no longer walk, but ride ;
and as for their conversation, it may be said that it
is mostly circumscribed within the circumference
of the Wheel ! Certain lines of productive industry
it has made ; some it has marred ; and others it has
modified. It has changed one-half the civilized
world from a sedentary set of biiHHls to an aggre-
gation enamored of outdoor life, and rejoicing in
those exhilarating ftctivitics of which the Wheel is
the i)arent and pi^dmoter. Although a " thing of
beauty" of itself, to say nothing of being so fre-
quently the silent, if not always obedient, steed
and servant of "'beauty superlative," yet, who
would have predicted, only a little while ago,
that the domain of Literature Itself would bo inci-
dentally enlarged and adorned through the coming
of the Wheel ? Nevertheless so it is. A new school
of poesy has arisen to celebrate the tribulations and
triumphs of the Bicycling world. The Bards of the
Bicycle have invaded Helicon in force and have
drunk deeply from the waters of its sacred rill ! It
is submitted that to this fiact the selections con-
tained in the following pages bear ample and
melodious testimony. 

It will be observed that many of the poems
readily adapt themselves to well-known and popu-
ular airs that are, in such cases, indicated. 

Care has been taken to give credit, in every
instance where possible, to the author, and to the
publication in which the selection originally

Air^*' ^Vhen ye Oang atoa,* Jamie.'' 

Aloncr the country road came Sue; 

Her heart was very sore at Ned;
Not far behind came Bdward, too. 

Not knowing- Sue was on ahead. 

That momingr they had fallen out.
And both rushed forth to take a spin. 

They knew not what 'twas all about.
But both knew what it ended in. 

Now Sue a hedge is passincr by; 

Alas, her tire is punctured there!
She halts beside the road to try 

To fill the flattened tube with air. 

Then Ned oomes w<heeling bravely on —
A thorn waylays his tire, too; 

And soon with wind and patience gone.
He halts across the way from Sue. 

Alack, he finds with jinking heart
That far behind he's left his pump! 

He can't retreat, he cannot start.
Now surely he Is up a stump. 

When, lo, across the dusty road
The gentle girl w<ho sees his plight 

Oomes tripping with her pump; the load
Slips from his heart and out of sight. 

A look, a thought, a spoken word, 

A hasty pumpin^r in of air.
The tender singing of a bird, 

And only peace is smiling there. 

Alon«r the country road came Sue,
Her heart at Ned no longer sore. 

And by her side rode Ekiward, too.
And now they quarrel nevermore. 



Air—'' The VaUey Lay Smiling

She glides like a dreiain from my vision 

In the morning all dewy and gray;
A nymph from the gardens Elysian, 

She dashes and flashes away!
Past meadows and groves, where the
Of birds all melodious swells,
My heart hears the silvery ringing
Of the beautiful bicycle bells! 

She's a bicycle, bicycle girl,
With Ihair of the loveliest curl;
Sihe's fresher than clover.
My heart she rides over-
She's a blcyole, bicycle girl! 

Her cheeks with the crimson Is glow-
With all that the rose could Impart;
The breeze — 'the mad wanton! — is blow-
A kiss and a curl to my heart!
Bast meadows where wild birds are
Their Way o'er velvety dells,
She glides with a ravishing ringing
Of the silvery bicycle bells! 

Philadelphia Times.


" Ben Bolt'' 

I've heard an-d read of the cycler's
That Ifl now quite known to fame,
I have seen and noted the anxious
On the features of the same. 

I have marveled much at the tales they
Of each lineamental case
Of the set, fixed, hardened lines that
Determine the cycler's face. 

But my greatest example of the like 

Is that oi the cyclingr churl
Who had the face to "borrow my bike 

To elope with my best girl. 

Boston Courier.


Air—" Yankee Doodle.'' 

I'd rather ride my wheel astride
And have my handles dropped. 

Than sit» erect, and be correct.
As though my spine were propped. 

I'd rather race at killing pace, 

And ride a higher gear.
Than slowly creep along the street. 

Because the fines are dear. 

I'd rather wear the bloomers fair 

And sport a sweater gay,
Than wear a skirt and fancy shirt. 

To please some squeamish Jay. 

I'd rather own, but not alone, 

A tandem built for two.
With handsome mate, and ride in state. 

Along the avenue. 

Now, please don't think that I'm a
Because my views are queer.
My heart is true, my notions new.
And all is not veneer. 

Holly, in Evening TBlegram..


Air--'' Roy's Wife.'* 

Hark to the voice of one who wails in
grrief and consternation, 

Singing the dirge, alack the day! of ra-
tional conversation; 

Dead, gone, and quite forg^jtten, till one
wonders in amaze 

What people found to talk about in pre-
cyclotic days. 

With talk of wheels and nothing else 

from soup to macaroni,
A modem dinner means a cyclo-conver- 

With quips and cranks in good old time 

our talk was wont to glitter;
The quips are gone, the cranks survive 

to prove themselves the fitter. 

The cyclo-chatter penetrates all sorts 

and kinds of places;
Queen's Counsel talk of "handlebars" 

and doctors of "gear cases"
The scientific man inquires, " Are Swifts 

or Bantams fieeter?"
And "cyclo" is the prefix to the poet's 

"dainty metre." 

I'm sighing for the good old times, 'tis 

sad to think upon them!
When maids sat at the spinning wheels 

instead of sitting on them;
For, though unfrequent were their words. 

and very mild their jokes.
They tired you not with talk of tires, 

nor did they speak of spokes. 

But nowadays in drawing rooms and 

shops and ladies' clubs.
Young wives complacently discuss the 

"new self-oiling hubs;" 

In Btranflre, mysteriaus phrase I hear 

them tell as In a dream.
How this one rides a "Buffalo" and that 

one a "Sunbeam!" 

And oh! how hard his lot who» in the cy- 

clo-craze not sharing,
Will find the talk of "ballbearings" is 

almost past his bearing!
They'll say "a screw's loose in his 

nut," to scorn the modern faddle,
And sad'll be his fate who takes no in* 

erest in a "saddle." 

The ball of conversation to keep rolling 

Tou needs must talk the cyclo-shop, and 

feign to share the craze,
The one consideration that consoles me 

at this Juncture
Is that the ball's pneumatic; so I hope it 

soon may puncture. 

A. Tyre O., in Vanity Fair.


Air—'* Scenes That are Brightest.'' 

My love can play the gay guitar
And paint on china ware; 

My love's a shining social star,
With Titian-tinted hair. 

But though she wears the latest hair. 

She doesn't care a rap:
The gay guitar and china ware 

She looks upon as scrap. 

Her doleful look and tones reveal
That she's in sorrow's snares; 

The solemn truth is that her wheel
Is laid up for repairs. 

Cleveland Leader.



Air—** Marching through Georgia,** 

I oannot be quite accurate in making: 

my report
Of the races that were ridden, and the 

battles that were fought.
For the Greoo-Trojan cycle races cx>und 

the town of Troy
Took place three thousand years ago 

when I was quite a boy. 

Old Homer was the only man to repre-
sent the press, 

His manuscript is blotted, and imper-
fect more or less — 

Reporting in hexameters, in ancient
shorthand too, 

On papyrus far from cream-laid is no
easy thing to do. 

Philoctetes was the starter with his
Herculean bow; 

He flred a poisoned arrow when he gave
the word to go. 

Agamemnon and old Priam took the
time, behind a shield, 

Cassandra dealt in prophesies and bet-
ting on the field. 

They opened with a ladies' race, which
Helen grandly led, 

Andromache and Hecuba were beaten by
a head. 

The pacer was a Paris man, as every-
body knows; 

While Juno and Minerva were disqual-
ified as "pros." 

Excitement reached its summit in the 

Greco-Trojan match —
Achilles versus Hector — they were both 

to start from scratch; 

The distance, fifty parasangs, tlie rules 

the N. C. U.,
(Or, as the club was titled then, the "Chi, 

Upsilon, Nu)." 

Ulysses was a wily man, and he had 

made a chain;
And 'by his largre felt hat he swore the 

victory to gain.
The Trojan on a "Pegrasus" around the 

three-lap sped,
Achilles rode a "Cerberus," which had a
triple head. 

When they had circled forty times, and
started round again, 

Achilles tripped up Hector with Ulysses'
lever chain. 

And still Achilles round the track pro-
pelled his flying wheel, 

And all the way he went he dragged poor
Hector by the heel. 

He dragged him to the winning post be-
fore he loosed his feet, 

And since they both came in at once the
Judges said, "Dead heat!" 

It's strange that to Achilles first prize
they did not yield, 

But then we must remember that they
sat behind a shield. 

F. J. G., in Cycling.


Air—** Jessie, the Flower of Dumblane.*' 

Thin as a specter, with sallow coon-
Senseless and swift as a bolt from the
Hotly disdaining to ohoose his direction.
See him in motion's delirium go. 

He recks not of victims all bruised and
He sees but the dust that is raised by
his toy.
His course all depends upon how he is
To pedal alone is his life and his Joy. 

The stream with its singing no soft mood
In vain wave the fields where the clov-
er is sweet;
He sees not the forest and sky with
their splendors;
He only exists in his ankles and feet. 

Washington Star.


Air—'''' There is no Luck.^'' 

Where is the summer girl to-day,
Who in the hammock swayed? 

Where is the spinster who, they say,
In charms began to fade? 

Where is the matron who reposed 

In the great easy chair?
Where is the college girl who dozed 

O'er books of learning rare? 

The empty hammock idly swings; 

The spinster's young once more;
The easy chair with unpressed springs, 

Stands lonely on the floor. 

The college girl, far from sedate. 

Joins in the season's zeal,
And each from early morn -till late 

Is out upon a wheel. 

Washington Star. 


Air— *' King O'Toon,'' 

'Twas down a long: and sen tie grade 

Her bike began to epln —
8be was most mlgrhtily afraid 

Altbough she tried to grrin.
8be grrabbed the bars, she jammed the

8he did as she was trained.
The more she tried to check its £q;>eed 

The more the darned thing: gained. 

A "copper" saw her "scorching" by — 

"Aha!" he said, and flew—
For he was of the Cycle Squad 

And was a "scorcher" too.
He caught her and "took in" the wheel* 

This conscientious "cop,"
And all because the lawless thing 

Could not be made to stop. 

Brooklyn Life,


Air— * Row, Brothert, Row

She fair and graceful, 

As a man likes;
He nice, but bashful; 

Both on their bikes. 

Maiden's eyes glisten. 

Cheeks like the rose;
No one to listen — 

Why not propose? 

"Nancy, I — (wabble)—
(Drat the old bike!)
Tou're Just the kind of girl—
(Wabble)— I like." 

Wabbled all over—
Crash! went two wheels; 

So did two lovers —
Head over heels! 

"Yes/* said she coyly, 

"I'll be your bride;
"But plecuse get a duplex 

Next time we ride!" 

John W. Low, in New York World.


" Old Dog Trayr 

When I was but a lad, 

Long ago,
This simple lore I had, 

Don't you know.
That every maiden fair
Was an angel unaware,
And I wondered when and where 

The winigs would, grow. 

But wiser now am I, 

A good deal,
Though I've sometimes seen them fly, 

Yet I feel
They are something just be<tween
Man and angel in their mien
Since my Phillida I've seen 

On her wheel. 

She does not show a sign 

Of a wing.
But her figure is divine. 

And the fling
Of her abbreviated gown.
As she flickers through the town,
Might buy the throne and crown 

Of a king. 

No halo of a saint 

Does firtie wear.
Such as Lippo loved to paint, 

But her hair
As "When all heaven streams
Through the landscape of my dreams —
In such grlory floats and grleams 

On the air! 

But not all for heaven she — 

Not too good!
Yet she's good enough for me 

In any mood.
And if her dating wheel
Took her even to the de'il,
Thither, too, I'd gently steal — 

Yes, I would! 

Charles O. D. Robertt^ in Truth.


AiUd Lang Syne.** 

The swimming season's almost o'er. 

The beach is lone to-day.
The summer girl deserts the shore 

For city pleasures gay.
The bathing dress is put away 

She lately flirted in,
And in a biking suit to-day
Upon the broad and smooth highway 

She takes a lively spin. 

Where'er she goes, by land or sea. 

She does her own sweet will;
We bend to her the willing knee — 

She fascinates us still.
Her potent influence we own 

On shoes or in the waves;
When summer's here, when it has flown. 

She draws us humble slaves. 

Boston Courier. 



Air—'Mai-y Blane.'' 

I met a dainty sumjner girl, 

She was not old, she said.
Her hair was thick with many a curl 

That clustered round her head. 

She had no rustic woodland air, 

And she was smartly clad.
She wore upon her face so fair 

A look that made me sad. 

'Tell me what ails you, pretty maid, 

That you so wan may be?"
"Alas, they're seven in all," she said 

And looked dejectedly. 

"But what are 'they?' I prithee tell."
•She answered, **Seven there be; 

Two bruises on my ankle dwell,
And two upon my knee." 

"Two of them on my arm do lie,
(They came when with Fan's brother), 

The seventh grave me this black eye.
You see how blue's the other." 

"You go about, my winsome maid.
Your limbs they are yet whole!" 

"Oh, yes." A fleeting: smile 'betrayed
The sadness of her soul. 

"Why do you ride the wheel, my dear. 

If this is the result?"
She said: "I'd ride it without fear 

Thoug-h 'twas a catapult! 

"No matter if they're seventy! 

Unto my wheel Is given
My heart forever more. Yet still 

Of headers I have had my fill. 

My bruises they are seven." 

Mary F. Nixon, in New York Sun. 



Air—*' Oreen Qrmo the Rwhe;'*

If Tain O'Shanter had a wheel
The witches mifirht hae sougrht him 

Fra bosky glen to rinnin burn
But ne'er ne'er causrht him. 

But I by far a soberer man-
While speeding: down the hifirhway, 

Took frelfirht at a wee canny thing*
Wha whirled fra oot the byway. 

Pu' plain she bore th' witches' sign; 

Cleft chin a-set wl' laughter;
An' Tam' aln bonnet on her head 

Made my puir brain th' dafter. 

Sae fast she sped alang th' way
I felt that she was wlnnln', 

"I'm caught," I cried, but on she went
An' would na stop her rlnnln'. 

"I yield the race!" I cried, but she
Looked round fra o'er her plaidle 

Wi blue eyes wide an' coolly said:
"Wiha's racin' wl' you, laddie?" 

Chicago Journal

Air—'* Oft in the StiUy Night" 

She passes on her wheel; I atand
And watch her onward gliding. 

I note the dainty little hand
Her cycle deftly guiding. 

Her rosy cheeks and wavy hair
Beneath her hat-brim shading; 

I watch her figure, light as air.
Into the distance fading. 

So she rides past me every day. 

'And each time comes the feelingr,
Ah, me! she takes my heart awuy 

Each time she goes a-wheeling. 

But I must gret me back to toil, 

Nor stop, her form, to scan.
Her papa's in the Standard Oil, 

And I'm his hired man. 

And ^o (my heartache I must heal, 

And bend to labor's load.
That's why, you see, she rode the wheel, 

While I— I wheel the road! 

Joe Lincoln^ in Buffalo Courier. 


Air—*" Cruiskeen Laun.
Her face won his devotion,
And her figrure's queenly motion
Filled his being with a notion 

All have felt. 

She rode her wheel so sweetly
That she conquered him completely,
And she had him tucked up neatly 

'Neath her belt. 

Her dot was more than ample.
For a thou, was but a sample.
And she never tried to trample 

On his vows. 

So this youth, in luck emphatic.
Had a future more ecstatic
Had he not been too erratic 

To espouse. 

For although her face and wheeling
And her fortune raised a feeling
That his peace of mind was steialing 

And his ease, 

He had oouragre never fla^grlng,
And preferred forever stagrglngr
When he saw her bloomers bagging 

At the knees. 

Frederic 8, Hartzell^ in Cleveland World.


Air-'Maid of Lodi?' 

She has a fair and lovely face, 

A face that wine the men;
She rides a bicycle with grrace 

And scorches now and then. 

She scorches now and then, but in 

No crowded Ihorouirhfare;
In country ways she takes her spin 

Where travelers are rare. 

And thus to woman, man or child 

No danger can come nigh
From her, for she's of temper mild 

And wouldn't hurt a fly. 

She has a heart that's warm to feel,
An eye that's bright with fun; 

If under her she has a wheel,
She in her head has none. 

She wears a pretty, modest suit, 

Well fltted and well made.
And though she shows a shapely foot, 

Her leg is not displayed. 

She is to every gazer's eye 

A vision of delight;
Her grace as she goes speeding by 

Would charm an anchorite. 

She is from affectations free; 

Her modest ways I like. 

And everybody's glad to see 

Sweet Nellie on her bike. 

Boston Courier,


Air—*' One Bumper at Farting.''" 

I'm an end-of-the-century girl,
But really, between you and me, 

I don't think the fun of the thing
Is quite what it's craeked up to be. 

I've worked to emancipate Woman,
I've tried to scorn dances and teas, 

I've discarded my petticoats, too,
And arrayed myself boldly in — these! 

I've swung on the parallel bars.
Read Ibsen, Nordau,and George Moore; 

I've toiled and I've spun on my wheel
Till all my anatomy's sore. 

To-morrow I'll cremate these togs
And lie in a hammock till night. 

With the Duchess and fashions to left
And a box of French bonbons to right. 

Yes, I've smoked, too, and gone through
the slums.
And inspected a big penitentiary.
And — ^hurrah! the goal is in sight.
The end of my first and last "century." 

Dick Law, in New York Sun.


Air—'' Robin Adair.'* 

"Come, fly with me," the lover said, 

"To some far distant clime.
Where tender romance is not dead 

And wealth is not sublime."
"Go 'fly' away with you?" said she, 

"Whoever heard the like?
If you would travel hence with me, 

Tou'll have to ride a bike." 

Cleveland Leader.


Air—'*^ Nora Creina.*' 

Prithee, PhylliB, give up coastinfir—
This appeal to you I'm making; 

'Tis your neck, down hillsides postlnfr —
And my heart your after breakingr! 

Woman — so they say who know her—
L«et not this suggestion rankle — 

Chiefly coiu^ts that she may show her
Pretty foot and well turned ankle! 

Sven so, pray give up coasting; 

Homage I will duly render.
And, instead, admire them toasting, 

If I may, upon the fender! 

Coasting Is a "dangerous practice," 

Liet me beg of you to end it;
Do not argue, for, the fact is. 

Argument cannot defend it. 

Yes, I know — you say you've never
Had a spill yet — don't be boasting! 

Though you do It "clean and clever,"
Prithee, Phyllis, grlve up coasting! 



Air -"Blue Bella of Scotland.'' 

Wanted: A kneepan smooth and hard, 

Unseamed and a perfect fit;
Prepared from stuff uncommonly tougli. 

That is warranted not to split. 

Wanted: A brand new set of ribs. 

Not made for vain display;
Not twisted, torn, or warped and worn, 

But curved in the proper way. 

Wanted: A pair of perfect ears — 

No fluted edgres for me;
An ear not ground, but round and sound, 

As a real good ear should be. 

Wanted: A face. I am not vain.
And a grood plain face will do, 

That is not a sight — with the color white.
For I'm tire'd of black and blue. 

A man that's new I'll be once more,
When these parts have been supplied; 

And maybe, then, I will mount again
That wheel and learn to ride. 


Air— ^'' Rob Roy McGregor, 

"Meeker and his wife are 'out'!"
So the rumor moved about;
Neighbors were Inclined to doubt,
Knowing none were more devout
In their loving, yet were bound,
By the character renowned
Of the tongues that did resound
With the story going round,
To reiterate the shout —
"Meeker and his wife are 'out'!" 

Ripe with wonder were they all
That such evil should befall
People they'd been prone to call
Proofs of love's enduring thrall;
But as day did day succeed
They discovered that indeed
Rumor was of truth the seed
And did full conviction breed
For the moments time doth deal
Did, in proof of reigning zeal.
Meeker and his wife reveal
Daily "out" upon their wheel. 

Boston Courier. 


Air—'* Ardby's Daughter.** 

Shall I tell you what I'm thinking: 

As I sit alone to-day,
While the ruddy coals are shrinking: 

Into ashes wan and gray? 

I am thinking: of my cycle, 

Swift as any Arab steed;
Graceful in its revolutions, 

Geared exactly right for speed. 

I am old and nearly sixty,
Staid and settled in my ways, 

Tet my heart will throb with pleasure
Thinking of my cycling days. 

Tell me not of balls and dances, 

O ye folk of feeble wits.
Schottische, polka, waltz, or barn-dance. 

Cycling beats them "all to fits." 

In the dance how many giddy 

Revolutions must you do;
While in cycling you sit steady, 

And your wheel gyrates — not you. 

In the dance the conversation
Is the silliest you have heard! 

But the wheel — your iron partner —
Ne'er interpolates a word. 

In the dance the air is poisoned
With carbonic acid gas.
On the wheel you meet the freshness
Of the morning as you pass. 

So I think I've made my case clear, 

And you'll all agree with me
That there's naught comes up to cycling', 

If you've "goodlie companie." 

Did I say my age was sixty,
And my riding: days were o'er? 

Perish such a dreary notion!
I will cycle more and more, 

'Till my limbs no more support me, 

And my vision clouded be,
'Till the present, past and future 

Merge into eternity. 

A. K. S., in a T. C. Gazette,


Air— ''' Moll Roe,'' 

I scarce know a nut from a bracket, 

I can't ride twelve miles in an hour,
I loathe all the wearisome racket 

Of amateur license and bar;
I keep my machines for three seasons. 

And never exceed sixty gear.
Yet I'm happy, for dozens of reasons. 

That spring's drawing near. 

You think I've no right of existence. 

You scorchers of speed and of fame,
Who grind with a deadly persistence 

The tasks of your wearisome game;
The dry roads of March have been

By heaven to lessen your toil,
And the evenings of spring have been

To save your lamp-oil. 

Yet still we're as common as rabbits. 

We people who can't shatter times.
And we don't think our leisurely habits 

Are really the worst sort of crimes.
Your Joys are in toil and in striving, 

We love but to linger and loll,
Yet— let us be glad— while we're living, 

The spring's for us all. 

The Irish Cyclist. 



Air-*' Irish MoUy O," 

Oh, all ye learned ones who know 

The ways of womankind.
Pray answer me a question that 

Doth much perplex my mind.
Why does the maid with dainty form, 

Whene'er she goes a-wheel,
Bedeck her lovely limbs with skirts 

That reach down to the heel,
While she whose form is thinner far 

Than maiden's e'er should be,
A cycling skirt will always wear 

That ends Just at the knee? 

Joe Lincoln^ in L. A, W. BvUeiin.

Air—** On the Beach at Long Branch,^^ 

Whizzing through the meadows, 

Bouncing over ridges.
Dodging busy crossings, 

Scooting under bridges.
Coasting down steep hillsides 

Till the senses reel;
Bless me! this is pleasant. 

Riding on a wheel! 

Rolling over roadways 

Swift as bird on wing
Early in the morning; 

This is Just the thing!
Hearing matin music 

Prom each dewy spray;
Old Sol, in the meantime, 

Ushers in the day. 

Skimming o'er the pavement.
Shooting through the park, 

Viewing pretty flowers— 

Isn't It a lark?
Haven't any lantern, 

Light begins to fail;
Copper will arrest and 

Run us into jail! 

Speeding, swiftly speeding, 

Go the racers gay,
Bending nearly double 

As they dash away.
All the people shouting. 

Wonder on each face.
Try to pick the winner 

In the great road race. 

Papa and his baby,
Etorling little boy, 

Whistle tuneful ditties-
Life is full of joy. 

Papa works the pedals,
Baby rides before; 

Papa soon is tired.
Baby cries for more. 

Gentleman just learning 

Seems a little rash;
Steers into a hydrant 

With an ugly crash!
Pulls himself together. 

Not inclined to talk;
While the rest are looking 

Thinks he'd rather walk. 

Gentleman in trousers 

Cut decolette,
Sees a maid in bloomers 

Just across the way.
Thinks that he will chai-m her 

By his ease and grrace;
Finds she's fully flfty 

When he sees her face. 

With immense exertion, 

Mr. Adipose,
Filling half the highway, 

Sweating, puffing, goes.
Morning, noon, and evening 

Finds him on the spin,
Happy in the thought that 

He is getting thin. 

Stream and vale and mountain 

Fascinate the sight;
Nature's many beauties 

Are the cyclist's right.
Splendor of the sunset 

In the evening sky.
Form and hue and fragrance 

Greet him passing by. 

Whizzing through the meadows, 

Bouncing over ridges.
Dodging busy crossings, 

Scooting under bridges.
Coasting down steep hillsides 

Till the senses reel;
Bless me! this is. pleasant, 

Riding on a wheel! 

Chicago Tribune.


 Coming Thro'' the Rye.'" 

Give me a pair of sturdy legs, 

And fair outfit of feet.
And I'll forego the bicycle.
However light and fleet. 

For Where's the wheelman knows the

Or views the cloud-flecked sky.
Or leaps the fence to meet a lass 

A-comin' through the rye? 

To every grlimpse of loveliness
His set, grim eyes are blind; 

He only sees the skimming road
And counts the miles behind. 

And should he meet a maid a-wheel, 

He can't think aye or no
Ere he and she have whisked apart 

A dozen leagues or so. 

Then give me my convenient legs. 

That go where'er I bid,
Heaven keep them always tireless 

As when I was a kid! 

Boston Courier.

Air—*' The Gypsy King/" 

The Frost King called to his fairy train,
From their home in the frozen zone, 

"Come cover the earth with the counter-
That hardens her heart to stone." 

''I've an old, old joke to play," he sung, 

And his voice was a wintry wail. 

Then he frosted the tip of his nose and 


An icicle on his tail. 


'Twas merry, 'twas merry in Foxbrush

For the hunting men were there;
The starkest riders, one and all, 

From Carlow and Kildare. 

They smoke and sing, and lie and laugh. 

Till the lofty rafter rings.
And seltzer with other things they quaflf 

To the glorious sport of kings! 

The lights are out—they sleep at last.
And dream of a hunting mom — 

Ho! roysterer, heard ye the tiny blast
That rangr from the Elfin horn? 

Sleep on, sleep on, for a dream is all
Your hunting- for many a day; 

High over the towers of Foxbrush Hall
The Frost King wings his way. 

And his "irapis" labor the live-long night. 

Till far as the eye can see
The leas are white and the trees bedlght 

With silver filigree. 


'Tis gloomy, 'tis grnimpy in Foxbrush
There is gloom, and there's grump
For the hounds have not come from the
kennels at all.
Though the horses are at the door. 

For the huntsman reports "that the
roads are like rocks. 

There's a bone in each bloomin' bank,
And 'im as goes 'urtin' 'is' osse's 'ocks 

'As honly 'isself to thank. 

And the Frost King rubs his frosen
And sharpens his crystal spear.
Whilst a smile, like a crack in the ice,
His mouth from ear to ear. 

But the smile dies down, and a sud-
den frown
Has wrinkled his brow of snow;
When the host maintains, "Though the
Frost King reigns.
Still a-hunting we can go!" 

"We have fifty odd bicycles at our call,
So, though the frost congeals. 

At ten we start from Foxbrush HaU
For a glorious hunt on wheels! 

"My daughter and I will be the hares,
For we know the country well; 

It's twenty to one we are back in our
Before the dinner bell!" 

'Tls merry once more in Foxbrush Hall, 

As the wheels go flashing past.
But the Frost King sings exceeding
As he mutters, "Fooled at last." 

W. P. French, in The Irish Cyclist.


Air— *' I Dreamt that l Dwelt in Marble Halls.'* 

Have the Rescue Ladies heard the tale
Of the Injun chief in the Western vale.
Who thought he'd stop the rushing train
In a way that seemed both smooth and

He rode^adown the lonely track
With his lasso carried coiled and slack.
And watched the engine come in view —
Watched till the warning whistle blew.
And then, as the monster thundered by.
He let his trusty lasso fly! 

It slipped right over the great smoke-
stack —
But the train adhered to the lonely track,
And all they found of the mighty chief
Was a dangling cord and a little Jerked

There's a moral fine in this ancient tale» 

That shows how easy 'tis to fail. 

When you try to stop with a ravelingr 

A force that thunders througrh the land;
And I think the dames in their new 

Will find themselves on a fatal grade,
And appreciate how the chief did feel
When they try to lasso the flying wheel. 

Detroit Free PreM.


Air—'* Hibernia's Lovely Jean."*" 

With many a friend, and ne'er a foe,
this cycle-riding craze 

Is spreading o'er the smiling earth, be-
neath the solar rays; 

It gathers strength at every bound, ap-
peals to rich and poor. 

It lets the butcher in to keep the doc-
tor from the door. 

The old and maimed, the halt and blind, 

and those who're sore distressed.
It bringeth comfort to their hearts, and 

they are doubly blessed;
The business man regards his bike as a 

sort of inner self.
That, by sweeping "cobwebs" from his 

brain, gathers in the pelf. 

The lordly duke and courtly belle, worn 

with dissipation.
Turn to the wheel as "the thing, you 

know," and healthful relaxation;
The laborer on a fearsome crock, rattles 

off to work.
The schoolboy on a "juvenile" attendance 

does not shirk. 

So it's sing, O Cyclers, black and white, 

of every clime and nation.
The praises of St. Velo in the highest 

adulation ;
Ring out the tidings to the world, that 

one and all may know
That any other panacea hasn't got a 


Bicycling News.

'* Paddies Evermore,^'' 

He feared no bucking broncho that went
snorting o'er the plain; 

He had tamed the brute for pleasure
and could do the same again. 

He had steered the ponderous mail-
coach where the rocky passes sweep 

In mystifying zig-zags close to chasms
broad and deep. 

And sometimes he had ridden, in an
economic stress 

Out in front, upon the pilot, of the can-
non-ball express; 

His reckless hungering for speed oft
tempted him to seek 

The joy of a toboggan down the nearest
mountain peak. 

But success must have its limit. Ere his 

mad career was through,
He boasted once too often and he met 

his Waterloo.
He thought no pace too devious or swift 

for him to strike.
But he howled for help and weakened 

when they got him on a bike. 

Washington Star.


Air—'*My Heart and Lute.'' 

When all the tiny wheeling stars
Their cycle lamps have lit. 

And, bending o'er their handle bars
On roads celestial flit, 

I trundle out my tandem fleet. 

With Daisy at my side;
We mount, and then our flying feet 

Propel us far and wide. 

Along the smooth secluded pike
We take our evening run. 

Two souls with but a single bike.
Two hearts that scorch as one.
Earl H, Eat<m, in Truth.


Air—'' Wait for the Wagon.'' 

When the air is rushing past us, and our 

ride has Just begrun,
With the hard white road beneath us, 

and above, the blazing sun.
What a happiness is in us, what a joy 

it is we feel.
When it's ride, ride, ride, a-riding on 

the wheel. 

We are racing down the roadway, pass-
ing tree and field. 

Tell us not of other pastimes, and the
pleasures that they yield. 

For we now are racing madly, nimbly
working toe and heel, 

For it's race, race, race, a-racing on the

There's a heavenly sky above us, and 

Nature laughs aloud!
In our little rustic arbor we forget the 

"madding crowd."
But now we must be stirring, and down 

the street we steal,
And it's ring, ring, ring, of the bell above 

the wheel. 

But it isn't always "scorching," and my 

cycle's pace is slow.
When the one who cycles with me is the 

lady that I know.
With face divine, a perfect form, a heart 

as true as steel.
Oh, it's love, love, love, it's Cupid on 

the wheel. 

When Old Time has cycled past me, and 

my ride is almost done,
And my life will all be evening, and 

above, the setting sun,
I shall watch the roving cyclist, I shall 

still be full of zeal.
'Twin be glad, glad, glad, glad memories 

of the wheel. 

Arthur H. Lawrence^ in Cycling World


Air—'' Over the Garden TFoW." 

She smiled at me as she swiftly passed, 

Over the handle bar;
That sunny smile was the maiden's last, 

Over the handle bar;
She carromed hard on a cobble stone.
She took a header she couldn't postpone —
Her twinkling heels In the moonlight

Over the handle bar. 

Philadelphia News. 


^iV— " Down in a Coal Mine."' 

LJttle drops of water. 

Little grralns of dust,
Fill the mighty wheelman 

With feelings of disgust. 

Little grains of dust and 

Rain in little drops,
Bring the mighty wheelman 

To unexpected "stops." 

Little grains of dust and 

Little drops of rain,
Make the mighty wheelman 

Feel a bit profane. 

H. E., in L. A. W. Bulletin.


Air—'' When I was a Lad/' 

I love it, I love it, and who shall dare
To chide me for loving that old bike 

I've treasured It long as a sainted prize.
And its battered old frame brings the 

tears to my eyes.
'Tis bound with a thousand bands to 

my heart,
Though the sprocket's bent and the links 

are apart.
Would you know the spell? My grand-
ma sat there,
Upon that old saddle, and zipped through 

the air.
In childhood's hour I lingered near
That old machine, with listening ear,
For grandma's shrieks through the house 

would ring 

If I even happened to touch the thing. 

She told me to wait until she died, 

Then I could take it and learn to ride. 

And once I caused her to tear her hair, 

When I cut the tire of that old wheel

'Tis old, 'tis wrecked, but I gaze on it

With quivering breath and with throb-
bing brow. 

'Twas there she sat — ah, how she could

With grandpa humping along at her side! 

Say it is folly, call it a joke," 

But the scrap man can't have even a

For I love it, I love it, and cannot bear 

To part with my grandma's old bike
there ! 

Cleveland Leader.


Air—'* Carnival of Venice,'^ 

When worn and tired with toil and care, 

I homeward wheel my way,
A thought dispels my dark despair 

And lights the homeward way;
A vision fair far up the street 

With straining eyes I see —
I hurry then ray love to meet — 

I know she waits for me. 

She waits for me, my love, my own. 

She greets me with a smile,
I hear again her tender tone, 

It shortens every mile.
She waits for me, because, you see, 

Like lightning she can go —
At every turn she waits for me — 

I ride so awful slow! 

Cleveland Plain Dealer, 


Air—'^ The Heart Bowed Down^ 

The maid stood by her shining wheel,
And proudly tossed her head; 

"I'll ride to-day, come woe or weal,
Though he come not," she said. 

But when a puncture flattened out
The tire so smooth and round, 

Her pretty lips began to pout,
And very soon a sound 

Much like a sob broke on the air. 

"Why comes he not?'* the maiden said;
**I have no kit! I do not care! 

I wish that I were dead!" 

James D. Dowling^ in L. A. W, BuUetin,


Air—'' Genevieve.'' 

He scorcheth down the Ripley Road, 

His teeth are set, his eyes a-glare;
In curious curves his back is bowed. 

And weird the raiment he doth wear.
He looketh not on maiden fair. 

Nor anything of beauty sees,
For him, alack, no charm is there, 

Who rides with nose between his knees. 

He carrteth but little load. 

And yet thereat shall curse and swear,
For still his demon doth him goad 

To ride more quickly — anywhere.
With bullet head and close cropped hair, 

And labor hard, which may him please.
What convict can with one compare 

Who rides with nose between his

Each Sunday morn from his abode, 

To slaughter dire forth doth he fare;
He saith that by-laws may "be blowed," 

Nor yet for mounted police doth care.
He catcheth lovers unaware, 

Who saunter underneath the trees;
He hath no conscience whatsoe'er, 

Who rides with nose between his knees. 


A crash, a grroan, a rigrid stare,
A coal cart plodding- at its ease; 

Stem Justice waits him who shall dare
To ride with nose between his knees.
Edward F. Strange^ in the Cycling World.


Air— '* Bonnie Eloise.'' 

I am willing- to pay for a half-page dis-
In heavy-faced letters, declaring
That I'll give a new dime for a word
that will rhyme
With the garments fair cyclists are
So, give me some space in a prominent
And send a sight draft for the pay-
Though it takes my last cent, I'll remit
with content.
When supplied with a rhyme for such
— raiment.
Only poets can know the extent of my
When Intent on some brilliant ef-
fusion —
I am knocked out of time for the lack
of a rhyme
Conveying the needful allusion. 

I might fill up my purse writing bicycle
At the price it is usually rated,
But my troubles intrude when I strive
to allude
To the cycle grirl's garb bifurcated.
I could reel off dead loads of good son-
nets and odes;
I am sure they'd be regular gol-
But a mention of breeches would forfeit
my riches
And how can I use the word "trous-
ers" ?
So, please give my ad. the best place
to be had,
And meanwhile I'll go down in my
And fish out a dime for a word that will
With those togs that are not knicker-



Air-'' Then You Remember- Me.'' 

Lucinda has the cycle fad,
And weekly worse it grows; 

She wants a wheel and wants it bad,
And likewise bloomer clothes. 

I'd like to please her, but I feel 

Opposed to cycling quite;
To" me a woman on a wheel 

Is not a pretty sight. 

The thought of it my temper stirs; 

I know I would not like
To see that stately form of hers 

Bent over on a bike. 


I do not fancy bikingr humps,
And feel my grief 'twould crown 

To see those beauteous legs, like pumps
Go working up and down. 

No, wheels are not for such as she,
Though they are speedy things. 

Far more appropriate 'twould be
Were she equipped with wings. 

Boston Courier. 


Air— ''The Wanderer,'' 

Show me a sight
Bates for delight
A bicycle bright wid a young Irish girl
on it: 

Oh, no! 

Nothin' you'll show
Aiquals her sittin' and takin' a twirl
on it. 

Look at her there, 

Night in her hair —
The blue eye of day from her eye laugh-
in* out on us, 

Faix an' a fut, 

Perfect of cut,
Peepin' to put an end to all doubt in us. 

That there's a sight
Bates for delight
A bicycle bright with a young Irish girl
on it; 

Oh, no! 

Nothin' you'll show
Aiquals her sittin' and takin' a twirl
on it. 

See! how the steel
Brigrhtens to feel
The touch of them beautiful weeshy soft
hands of her! 

Down firoes her heel.
Round runs the wheel,
Purrin' wid pleasure to take the com-
mands of her. 

Talk of Three Fates.
Sated and Sates,
Spinnin' and shearln' away till they've
done for me. 

You may want three
For your massacree —
But one fate for me, boys, and only the
one for me. 

An' isn't that fate
Pictured complate,
A bicycle bright wid a young Irish girl
on it; 

Oh, no! 

Nothin' you'll show
Aiquals her sittin' and takin' a twirl
on it. 

Irish Cyclist.


Air—'' The Young May Moony 

**I always feel so brave," she said,
**When I the 'cycle pedals tread.
"Like some world-conquering cavalier,
I ride unconscious all of fear!" 

A field mouse crossed our winding way —
A gasp, a scream, a swerve, a sway!
And roadside gully did reveal
A pot pourri of maid and wheel. 

Richmond Dispatch.

Air— *' Farewell, My Oum." 

Bike! Bike! Bike! 

O'er the hard street stones, O She!
And I would that my tongue could utter 

The thoughts that arise in me! 

O well for the newspaper boy
That he scoots on his cycle away! 

O well for the butcher lad
That he pedals — perchance it may pay! 

But when stately girls get on 

All a-couch, and with prospect of spill,
It Is O for the touch of a wee soft hand, 

And the sound of a voice that could

Bike! Bike! Bike! 

With thy foot on the pedal, O She!
But the girlish grace that the Wheel
struck dead
Will never come back to thee! 


Air—'^Lauriger Horatiua.*^ 

Upon the bench he sat and sat. 

While others came and went.
His face half hidden 'neath his hat 

Showed doubt and terror blent;
His sweetheart passed, he didn't rise, 

She knew not what he meant,
She little guessed the dreadful ties 

That held him while she went;
For though with love his heart was filled 

He moved to no extent —
Because he sat where some one spilled 

A tube of bike cement! 

Cleveland Plain Dealer. 


Air— ''Days of Jubilee,^' 

Of all the tedious, irksome jobs 

That I have ever tried,
The toug-hest and most tiresome is 

To teach a girl to ride. 

And yet the most ecstatic bliss 

It's been my joy to feel
Was when it fell my lot to teach 

A girl to ride a wheel! 

The mystery of this paradox 

Is easy to unfurl,
For whether it is work or play. 

Depends on whose the girl ! 

Southern Cyclist.


Air— '' Hours There Were:"* 

When evening- comes with cooling^ air
With tandem I seek Nellie fair.
To stand disconsolate at her irate
And count the minutes that I wait
Until she comes to meet me there. 

The smooth roads call us everywhere, 

The parks would hold no happier pair 

If she would only not be late 

But hurry to me at the gate, 

That we might start tog-ether there. 

The Midway bright with lantern's glare.
Throbs under countless wheels that bear
Their riders swiftly on in state.
Make haste, my dear, it is your mate
Who calls for you his bliss to share. 

Chicago Times- Herald. 


Air—''Tfie Days token We Went Oypsying.'' 

Grood roads is what I'm wishin' for, 

An' me and many a pard
Is alius keepin' on the stir 

To wear 'em smooth an* hard. 

TVe watch the birds upon the wing; 

We travel with the lark,
And with the robins of the spring 

You'll find us in the park. 

We tramp from Maine to Texas. 

An' from Texas everywhere,
With not a thing to vex us 

If the trampin's only fair. 

We hate the narrow wagon wheels, 

They shouldn't be allowed;
Per we're — as every member feels — 

A hollow-tired crowd. 

If there's a care to trouble you, 

Its purpose you can balk;
Come Join our L. A. W., 

Which means we Loaf and Walk. 

L. A. W. Bulletin.


'Air—'' The Low-backed Car."' 

With head erect and downcast eyes, 

She glides along the street;
There is no girl in all the town 

Who seems to me so sweet.
Far down the road she loves so well. 

My tender glances steal;
The world seems bright, my heart is

When Peggy rides the wheel. 

The pedals turn with lightning speed; 

She looks demurely meek;
The rose she wears upon her coat 

Seems pale beside her cheek.
Oh, if I did but know her will 

I at her shrine would kneel!
I look above and think of love, 

When "Peggy rides the wheel. 

How most divinely fair she is 

Within that suit of grray;
I'm even Jealous of the winds 

That with her tresses play.
I've reached my three score years and

And sig^ns of age reveal;
But all the same. I'm young again 

When Peggy rides the wheel. 

Edwin Auatin Oliver^ in L. A. W. Bulletin.

Air—'* My Lodging w on the Cold Ground.'^ 

"I longed to kifls you," he softly said,
"As we passed the turnpike, dear." 

"Oh, that was the place," and she tossed
her head,
"Where my saddle was out of gear." 

"How much I loved you I longed to tell. 

When we stopped at the inn, you 


"Oh, that was the place," and her 

glances fell, 

"Where my front wheel wabbled so." 

"And then, when we reached the clover

Under the old oak tree,
I wanted to clasp you, sweet, in my arms. 

And ask you to marry me." 

And the maid, with her rapt gaze 

turned away,
Blushed deep at his words of Are,
"To think/' she said, "that I rode that 

Ten miles on a punctured tire! 

"And so with pleasure and real delight 

I note what your words reveal;
For I've longed some time," and she 

clasped him tight,
"To ride on a brand-new wheel." 

Tom Masaon, in Life.


Air-'' Sprig of Shillelagh^ 

Sing hey! the wild scorcher, he's out on 

the track,
He's mounted his wheel and he's humped 

up his back;
His saddle is high and his handles are 

And he's off down the road like a shot 

from a bow. 

He carries no lantern, he uses no bell,
He bears down upon you with whoop 

and with yell;
The old ladies faint and the children 

all cry,
And we all hold our breaths when the 

scorcher goes by. 

Beware, then, young rider, so trembling
and pale. 

The hard-riding scorcher is hard on your

He sweeps round the corner — a heart-
rending crash! 

You roll in the gutter, he's gone like a

The steeds of the city ne'er cause him 

to flinch,
He misses electrics by half of an inch;
Throug:h the crowds on the crossings, 

regardless he glides,
And the ambulance follows wherever he 


O, wild-riding scorcher, we hope when 

you die,
And depart for the land of the "sweet 

bye and bye,"
That then will be answered the citizen's 

And you'll get all the scorching you want 

over there. 

Joe Lincoln^ in L. A. W, BuUetin,


Air— '^ John Brouni^s Bodyy
I have seen the dazzling beauty of the 

swiftly flying wheel,
I have seen its air-fllled tires and its 

bars of flying steel;
And I know Just how its rider, as he
flys along, does feel — 

As he goes riding on. 

Chorus: — 

Glory. Glory, Hallelujah; so they go
riding on. 

I know that they are happy, happy. 

happy all the day,
I know they feel like singing "Yankee 

Doodle" all the way;
I know they are rejoicing that they did 

not stay away, 

As they go riding on. 


So come, my brothers, sisters, all, and 

let us have some fun;
Come far out in the country bright for 

just a little "run;"
We surely shall reach home before the 

setting of the sun; 

As we go riding on. 


Qlory Anna, in L. A. W. Bulletin.


Air—'- The Sword of Bunker Hill.'" 

He tumbled from his weary wheel, 

And set it by the door;
Then stood as though he Joyed to feel 

His feet in earth once more;
And as he mopped his rumpled head 

His face was wreathed in smiles;
"A very pretty run," he said, 

"I did a hundred miles!" 

"A hundred miles!" I crted. "Ah think! 

What beauties you have seen!
The reedy streams where cattle drink. 

The meadows rich and green.
.Where did you wend your rapid way — 

Through lofty woodland aisles?"
He shook his head. "I cannot say — 

I did a hundred miles!" 

"What hamlets saw your swift tires

Ah, how I envy you!
To lose the city's dust and din 

Beneath the heaven's blue;
To get a breath of country air. 

To lean o'er rustic stiles!"
He only said: "The roads were fair — 

I did a hundred miles!" 

William Carleton^ in L. A. W. Bulletin. 


If a body meet a body 

Riding on a wheel,
If a body greet a body 

Need a body squeal? 

Ilka tandem goes at random. 

None th' less go I,
An' a* the lads that wink at me 

Would kiss me on the sly. 

Scottish Nights.

Air—'- Oh, No, We Never Mention Her^ 

He had coasted down the pyramids and
crossed the Bridge of Sighs. 

By his racing in the Orient he had cap-
tured many a prize. 

Made a circum-navigation of this great
terrestrial ball, 

Over mountains, plains and ice floes, the
desert sands and all. 

He had beaten with a handicap of forty 

rods or more
All the cracks of the profession, speedy 

flyers by the score, —
Such as Banger, Boulter, Zooper, Gizer, 

Curphy, Simble, Kiss,
LArdiner, Kiezler, Cohnson, Maid and 

Bloughead, all without a miss. 

He had scaled Iztaccihaute, rode the 

naughty Transvaal through,
Scorched a mile in ninety seconds on the 

streets of Timbuctoo;
In the wilds of Kipling's Jungles ran a 

monstrous cobra down,
And the Rajah of UJiji made him solid 

with the town. 

When he donned his many medals he
was proof against the foe, 

For a bullet couldn't find him — he was
armed from head to toe. 

Some of pewter, lead and antimony, cop-
per, zinc and gold; 

Some of silver! Yes, of silver! — free and
otherwise, I'm told. 

He had chased a band of Indians and a
cyclone once chased him, 

But he rounded up in Deadwood with the
saddle and one rim. 

He had braved a thousand perils and es-
caped without a blow; 

But he couldn't dodge the sprinkling
cart, and so they buried him low.
George Bancroft Smith, in L. A. TV. Bulletin.


Air— '' Dublin Bay."" 

Sing me a song of the whirling wheel 

that paces the coming rain.
Of the riding rath on the pounded path 

by gate and hedge and lane.
A lilt to be sung when the spokes are 

strung to the tune of the paling 

When the blood of the wire, like a 

vibrant fire, creeps up thro' the 

handle bars. 

Lane and marl and sand-white road and 

pattering drops at last.
Never a turn till the fingers burn and 

the breath comes stabbing fast.
On and down to the sleepy town on the 

staggering wagon trace.
Till the blood can feel the soul of the 

steel flame up to the rider's face. 

Fast, fast, more fast, until at last, while 

dawn and tempest blend.
In, in, thro' flash and thunder crash, 

with tumbling rain at end.
Ne'er saw such ride the Oxus side, nor 

Icnew it the tribes of Dan,
But such is a race that flndeth place in 

the love of the heart of a man. 

Post Wlieeler^ in New York Press,


^4ir— *• Rich and Rme were the Qems She Wore^ 

What though the rain weeps down the

And all the streets are muddy gray.
And cycling hopes are worse than vain 

This wet, unhallowed, dismal day —
Still shall my soul know joy and peace. 

And sweet delight shall thrill my heart.
As, armed with rags and wrench and

I take by bicycle apart. 

One half the pleasure, I opine, 

Which focusses upon a wheel
Is that ecstatic and divine 

Enjoyment I am wont to feel
When I remove the nuts, or screw 

The saddle off, or loose the chain,
Or pull the inner tube to view. 

And try to put it back again. 

I love to tinker with the forks — 

To readjust the mud-guard strips —
To cut deft patches out of corks, 

Wherewith to mend the handle-grips;
1 take the bearings out, and clean 

Them with a piece of an old sack,
And I am happy and serene 

Until I seek to put them back. 

Oh, rainy days do fill my heart 

With rapture which I deem sublime,
For then I take my bike apart, 

Just as I did the other time;
I file and rub and twist and chop, 

And wrench and pull and paint and
And next day take it to the shop, 

And have it put back into shape. 



" Haste to the Wedding.''^ 

See her spin down the street,
Natty from head to feet.
Saucy, bewitching, sweet, 

Gay as a linnet!
By all the gods! but I'd
Mightily like to ride
By that fair cycler's side 

Just for a minute! 

Ah! what nymphean grace!
What a poise! what a pace!
Surely, were she to race. 

She could win medals!
Gown trim, yet flowing free,
Hat what a hat should be.
Boots pressing prettily 

Down on the pedals. 

Presto! the vision's gone,
Passed like the blush of dawn;
Seem from the scene withdrawn 

Love, light and laughter.
Bless me! how glum I feel!
By Jove! I'll get my wheel.
Mount in a trice, and steal 

Speedily after! 

Irving Oilmore in Buffalo Express. 


Air—'' There is no Luck.'* 

'TIs not the costume that he
Betrays the wheelman bold; 

'Tis not his haggard look that beam
The proof he's of that mould; 

'Tis not his cap, 'tis not his shoe, 

'Tis not his curving spine;
Yet something tells us that it's true
He's in the cycling line. 

'Tis not the awkward way he walks, 

'Tis not the way he stands;
'Tis not the way he laughs or talks 

That marks him in all lands.
And yet we know that he aims to be 

A "scorcher" and a "crack" —
We're sure of it, because we see 

The mud-streak down his back. 

Detroit Frte iVett.


Don't you think because you see
Wheelmen bowling gracefully
Down a hill in ecstacy. 

That to care they are unknown;
For beyond the vale below
Is a hill just tilted so
It will make those wheelmen blow. 

They have troubles of their own. 

And ahead there waits a town.
And a copper with a frown.
Who delights to call men down. 

If they don't move like a snail.
Any wheelman so inclined,
To the cop may speak his mind, —
And he's lucky if he's fined 

And don't have to go to jail. 

When the sprinkler soaks the streets, 

Even acrobatic feats 

Will not keep them in their seats, 

So they tumble in the mud.
And a little farther still,
Is a most unwholesome hill,
Where they're apt to have a spill. 

Which Involves a painful thud. 

Then, as wheels wont stand such wear,
There are breaks they can't repair;
And the railroad don't go there, — 

It's just "twenty miles away."
And a wheel don't feel as light
When you're sort of tired at night
And no supper looms in sight
Through the mists of dying day.
F. J McBeth, Jr., in L. A. W. Bulletin.


Air— 'Royal Charlie/' 

1 love my wheel as men are said 

At times to love a horse,
And when I treat it harshly I 

Am filled with much remorse.
I take it on the best of roads. 

And keep its tires fed.
I never fill them with bad air, 

But choose the best instead. 

And as horse-lovers groom their steeds 

Until their sleek sides shine.
So with the best of polish I 

Rub up that bike of mine.
And when it shows some weakness 

In its sprockets I repair
As horsemen, to the doctor who 

Will give it best of care. 

And in return my well-loved wheel
Shows me afCection great. 

It rarely throws me o'er Its head 

To crack my massive pate.
And if it happens that I fall. 

As it must sometimes be.
My grateful little wheel takes care 

That it falls not on me. 

Tet, like a horse, it has some faults, 

At which I close my eyes.
Sometimes upon the boulevard 

My little bikelet shies.
Sometimes when I would mount, it seems 

Quite frisky, and will go
Off to one side and wabble for 

A dozen yards or so. 

But on the whole it's amiable, 

Its spirits never flag,
And I would never swap it off 

For any splendid nag.
For best of all its qualities. 

When winter's on the hook,
My little bikey is no tax 

Upon my pocketbook. 

Harper^s Bcuscuir.


Air—''MoUy Brallaghanr
The preacher spoke of little things. 

Their influence and power.
And how the little pitted speck 

Made all the apple sour. 

He told how great big sturdy oaks 

From little acorns grew.
And how the tiny little stone 

The burly giant slew. 

But the cyclist sat there unimpressed 

By all the speaker's flre.
Until he went outside and found
A pin had pierced his tire. 

Wilkesbarre News Dealer.

Air—'' The Spider and the Fly.'' 

When Gerty goes a-wheellng half the 

people in the place
Come out to gaze, admire and praise, 

as she skims by apace;
They never tire of lauding her activity 

and grace,
And of the whole there's not a soul but
loves her bonny face. 

So fast she flies, 

She has fluttered past and gone
Before their eyes 

Have been fairly cast upon
The rippling skirt, which half forgets 

its duty of concealing
Those little feet that pedal fleet when 

Gerty goes a-wheeling. 

"When Gerty goes a-wheeling it has been 

observed that few.
However quick and hard they kick, can 

keep her wheel in view.
According to appearances, they've 

crawled while Gerty flew.
Though they have trained and toiled and 

strained and done the best they 


The lissome lass 

Always leads them on the course;
They cannot pass, 

And must be resigned perforce
To smother in their jerseyed breasts the 

deep chagrin they're feeling,
And take her dust, because they must, 

When Gerty goes a-wheeling! 

When Gerty goes a-wheeling, it's a pleas-
ant sight to see. 

For light and lithe and brave and blithe
and beautiful is she; 

Her brown hair blowing backward, and 

her cheeks aglow with glee.
The cream she seems of what one dreams
a wheel girl ought to be — 

Like sylph on wing.
In a sky forever fair, 

A happy thing
Of the sunshine and the air.
You fancy you are touched by some ce-
lestial breath, revealing
In very truth, the joy of youth, when
Gerty goes a-wheeling! 

Manley H. Pike, in Buffalo Express,


Air-'' Kinloch of Kinloch^ 

A young Lochinvar is come out of the 

Of all the good makes his wheel was 

the best;
And save for his air pump equipments 

he'd none;
He rode without tools, but he rode not 

So faithful in love, so matchless in 

He outscorched the scorchers — in that 

all agreed. 

He stayed not for tack, he stopped not 

for dog,
He rode o'er the river upon a round log;
But e'er he leaped off at his fiancee's 

His Nell had consented and Locky was 

For a "dead one" at speed (he'd ne'er 

won a race)!
Was to wed Locky 's Nell, to take Locky 's 

place ! 

"I'll enter," said Locky, "whatever be-

And if need arise I'll punch bridesman
and all." 

Then spoke the bride's father, with fire
in his eye 

(The singular is right — the other was
shy) : 

"Come you for trouble or to share in
our joy? 

You're in either case welcome, Locky,
me boy." 

"I longr wooed your daughter, my suit 

was denied.
Liove swellF like a tire, but it ebbs like 

the tide;
And now I am come with this lost love 

of mine
To eat of the bride cake, to drink of 

the wine.
There are maidens in this burgh far 

fairer who'll try
To win out old Locky — ^you know that's 

no lie." 

The bride pledged a "schooner" and Lock 

took her up.
Went her four better and threw down 

the cup.
The cut of her bloomers, the light of her 

Made young Locky mutter, "I'll win her 

or die."
He took her soft hand ere her ma could 

And 'round the whole room in a polka 

they went. 

A touch of her hand, a word in her ear.
He gave her a sign that the tandem
was near. 

From the door to the seat the bloomer 

grlrl sprung;
To ligrht in the saddle behind her he 

"We're off!" Locky shouted, "we'll give 

'em a run.
They're scorchers, indeed, who'll be in 

on this fun." 

There was mounting of wheels 'mong 

all Nellie's clan.
From the young country cousin e'en to 

the old man;
But they never saw more fair bride or 

groom true —
Who scorched to the altar on a wheel 

built for two.

 Killarn ey. " 

Cynthia, each sunny day.
On her cycle speeds away,
Laughing cheerily, to stray
Up the valley's winding way.
Merry, careless, bright and gay.
Blithe as sylvan sprite at play,
Idle nymph, or woodland fay.
As fair, as sweet as budding May! 

Bides she by the grand old tree
In the forest's secrecy.
Content alone awhile to be.
Yonder, soon, an eye shall see
Coming nigh, a wheelman free.
Laughing, singing tenderly
Eros' song of sympathy —
Should he pause, if you were he? 

American Cycling, 


Air—''RosHn Castle.'" 

My beautiful, my beautiful! thou stand- 

est meekly by,
With proudly arched and glossy frame, 

and sprocket geared so high.
Fret not to roam within the Park with 

all thy winged speed;
I may not scorch on thee again — thou'rt 

pinched, my silent steed! 

Fret not with that impatient tire, sound 

not the warning gong;
They'll check you in a basement damp 

because I scorched along.
The bike cop hath thy handle bar — my 

tears will not avail;
Fleet-wheeled and beautiful, farewell! 

for thou'rt held for bail! 

Farewell! those fat pneumatic wheels 

full many a mile have spun,
To bask beside the Cliff House bar or do 

a century run;
Some other hand less skilled than mine 

must pump thee up with air;
The patent lamp that won't stay lit must 

be another's care. 

Only in sleep shall I behold myself with 

bended back —
Only in sleep shall thee and I avoid the 

trolley track;
And when I churn the pedals down to 

check or cheer thy speed.
Then must I, starting, wake to learn 

thou'rt pinched, my silent steed. 

Ah, rudely, then, unseen by me, some
clumsy chump bestride 


May wabble into rough brick walls and 

dish a wheel beside;
And compressed wind that's in thee 

'scape in shrill, indignant pain
'Till cruel man that on thee rides will 

fill thee up again! 

With slow, dejected foot I roam, not
knowing where or when 

I'll meet a good Samaritan who'll kind-
ly loan me ten. 

And sometimes to the Park I go, drawn
in my hopeless quest; 

'Twas here I struck a record clip— the
copper did the rest. 

Who said that I had given thee up? Who 

said that thou wert lost?
•Tis false, 'tis false, my silent steed! I 

fling them fine and cost!
Thus — thus I leap upon thy back and hit 

the asphalt trail.
Away! my bright and beautiful; I 

pawned my watch for bail.
Charles Dryden^ in San Francisco Examiner.

Air-'' Land o' the Leal,*' or ''Scots Wha Hoe.'' 

Oh, not the cycle, lady fair! 

Those slender hands and dainty feet
Were made for man's delight, despair, 

And not for whirling down the street
On iron wheel. 

Oh! not the cycle — for I swear
That dainty form was never made 

To brave the bold and eye-glass'd stare.
In bloomer costume undismayed.
Upon bare steel. 

Oh! not the cycle, whirling mad,
The rude, rough rush of spinning
The manlike swagger, senseless, sad.
That sits uneasy on each dame
Who wheeling goes. 

Oh ! not the cycle, for I love
To dream you still my queen divine. 

So insecure you loom above,
I feel your fall — perhaps on spine,
Perchance on nose. 

Oh! not the cycle! In this age. 

Invention mad and lost to grace.
Oh! still preserve your skin from scrage.
Preserve untouched your lovely face
And perfect form. 

New York Tribune.


Air^'* John Anderson, my Jo.'' 

Mary bought a bike, when bikes 

Were novel here below,
And everywhere that Mary went 

Upon that bike she'd go.
She pedaled it to school one day — 

To teach it was her rule —
And when the children saw that bike 

It crazy made the school. 

And v/hen from thence they hurried out. 

With all their parents dear.
They begged and plead, until to each 

A bike there did appear.
And now the school is closed, and on 

The town's macadamed pike
With Mary all her retinue 

Do bike, and bike and bike. 

Boston Courier. 


Air-'' My Love She's but a LoMie Yet/' 

A moment ere the dance begran
A lady and a grentleman
You Introduced. Ah, by the way,
They're waltzing now, who are they,

"Don't know them, eh? That's puzzling, 

The gentleman is Mr. White,
The lady is, upon my life.
None other than his lawful wife. 

"Funny, you say? Well, circumstance
For meeting gives them little chance.
For she's all day in cycle flight
And he is at the club all night." 

Boston Courier.

Air—'' KaUikeii Mavoumeeii." 

"Who is he," he sighed, with an air
"That tries to restrain the ambitions
which 'rise
'Mongst women who argue that serious
The right to be voters, which freemen
so prize?
Oh, why are these satires so cruel in-
To turn her attention which harmlessly
strays ;
To fret her when she might be blandly
With ballots instead of expensive bou-

•' 'Tis folly to sneer at the garb which
she chooses —
This mild bifurcation she wears on a
'Tis homely and harmless, and, if it
There's naught to be gained by divert-
ing her zeal.
Yet they thoughtlessly chide her innoc-
uous humors
In ponderous prose and in villainous
When perhaps she'd be thoroughly happy
in bloomers
Instead of the sealskin which flattens
the purse." 

Washington Siai'.


Air — '* The Wearing of the Greeny 

He was a mounted copper, 

Upon an iron steed.
And was laying for the scorcher, 

Who rode at lawless speed;
When whizzing 'round the corner. 

At a breakneck, lightning pace.
Appeared a reckless rider. 

Whereupon the cop gave chase. 

"I say there!" cried the bluecoat,
As he humped himself about, 

"You're arrested for fast riding."
When the scorcher heard the shout 

He looked o'er his shoulder, 

• And he didn't do a thing 

But pedal all the harder
And make the welkin ring. 

"I like that," said the "finest,"
As through the thoroughfare 


He started for his victim; 

And the crowd that grathered there
Cheered the racer, jeered the copper 

And wagered ten to one
On the scorcher as he sped alongr 

On that exciting run. 

In and out among the horses 

And wagons on the street
Thoy dodged about most artfully, 

Doing many a dangerous feat;
But the bluecoat was outdistanced, 

He set too slow a pace.
And his anger gave expression 

In the wrath upon his face. 

At last grown weak and weary, 

The copper swore he'd shoot.
And reached back for his pistol, 

But the crowd cried, "Don't, you
But he aimed it at the scorcher, 

If he didn't, I'm a liar;
"Bang!" and the scorcher tumbled, 

For the cop had pierced his tire. 

Washinijton lYmes.


Air— From '"iVorwia." 

The autumn fruit is mellow. 

The wheeling is immense;
The leaves are turning yellow, 

A cyclist on a fence;
He looks around and views the ground. 

He sees the moment suits;
He fills his sweater full and round. 

Then mounts his wheel and "scoots." 

17,7:9, in L. A. W. BuUetin.

Air—*' We Wont Go Home Till Morning:' 

She was dainty, she was pretty.
Quite a number thought her witty, 

And she entertained expensively and
charmingly, I'm told.
Luncheons, teas and dinner-dances
Incomplete were without Frances;
Countless fellows made advances 

For her hand — likewise her gold. 

But, alas! she took to wheeling.
And it stirred up quite a feeling
'Mongst her beaux, ta whom of nothing
save her bicycle she'd speak.
She said, "I cannot stand 'em.
Their dismissals I will hand 'em!"
And she left home on a tandem
With a clerk at ten per week. 

Brooklyn Life.

Air— -' Af ton Water:' 

Brief-skirted and slender, 

She mounts for a ride;
Six gallants attend her —
Brief-skirted and slender,
She claims the surrender 

Of all at her side.
Brief-skirted and slender,
She mounts for a ride. 

Oh, radiant creature; 

She wheels and she whirls,
Till no one can reach her —
Oh, radiant creature.
In figure and feature 

She's a goddess of girls —
Oh, radiant creature. 

She wheels and she whirls. 

There's no use denying
She's captured my heart; 

There's no use denyingr 

She did It by trying
The bicycle art. 

There's no use denying
She's cAptured my heart. 

I'll ask her to marry 

Without more ado;
No longer I'll tarry—
I'll ask her to marry
And try in a hurry 

A wheel built for two—
I'll ask her to marry 

Without more ado. 

Sutie M. Bett. in New Bohemian.


Air—" The Campbell* are Coming.^*
A bachelor went to the bicycle race, 

And to slumberland later proceeded.
He'd been somewhat impressed by the
"bicycle face,"
But that hadn't been all that he

In slumberland visions full many he saw.
But the vision his dreams most com-
Was an army of damsels with hardly a
In the grace of their young under-

Here and there through his dreams flit-
ted faces and forms
That were not of the gender that's
But they cut little ice and lacked wholly
the spice
Of the others much more ornamental. 

'Twas the latter which conjured before 

his closed eyes
A vision all rainbow and clocklnsrs,
And he murmured: *'This certainly takes 

the first prize
As a rare show of fine Christmas stock- 


3f., In New York World,


Air— '''From Cove to Cork.'" 

"It Is perfect/* he cried.
As he sat by the side 

Of his glittering 54;
'*In Its simplest part
I am certain that art 

And science can do no more!" 

But the "Safety** came
With its lowly frame, 

And he cried in his heartfelt Joy:
"No more we*ll spill
As we race down hill, 

Tou can't beat this, my boy." 

Then, not too soon,
Came the big balloon. 

And he felt his solid tyre;
And he cried, " If this
Isn't perfect bliss 

Just write me down a liar!'* 

But year follows year.
And it doesn't appear 

That we're near perfection yet.
And soon we shall meet
A bicycle fleet 

With all their studdin' sails set. 

The Irish Cyclist.

Air—*' The WcUch on the Rhine V 

I fly from the heat of the noisy street 

To the shade of the country lane;
I bear the clerk from his office dark 

To the sunny fields again.
On me bestrid, the town-bred kid 

May hear the brooklet sing.
And chase the wopse through the leafy

Till he flnds that the wopse can sting. 

I silently glide to mark the tide 

Come in on Sandymount strand.
And linger near to the Merrion Pier 

If there happens to be a band.
In holiday time more frequently Tm 

En route for a longer run;
Up slick and away for Killiney or Bray, 

And home with the setting sun. 

My frame they rack on the racing track, 

And bend each slender spoke;
But little they care how cycles fare 

If the record is only broke.
Then, with tightened chain, I am at it

Till my rider has got too stale.
Or I chance to collide, or I run too wide, 

And smash myself up on a rail. 

I bring good health, and if not wealth. 

Still a saving in cab or car.
And tram and train are ne'er needed

When you grasp my handlebar.
On a drop of oil I merrily toil, 

And need no ostler's care,
Though, of course, when I'm wrecked,
you may always expect 

A pretty long bill for repair. 

Of my advent I tell with the clanging
I startle the slumbrous swine;
The ducks stand aghast, and the hen
flees past
From those glittering wheels of mine,
Like lightning I dart by the polo cart 

Which follows me with a will,
But it's left far behind, except when I
That the road is all uphill. 

You can ride, you're aware, on my tires
of air
With never a jolt nor jar;
You can get up the steam and coast like
a gleam
Of light from a falling star.
From the town, with its grime, I fly to a
Where the beauties of nature are rife;
I'm all you desire and all you require
To make you contented with life. 

Irish Cydiat,

She never grows old, no, it isn't the 

She has pinned her faith to the "fresh 

air" code.
And joined the gay throng out on the 


Her grandma wore cute, little lacy caps.
Her grandma took daily, her little naps.
But she takes the air in modern wraps. 

Her grandma grew aged at forty or so;
But stemming the tide of the long ago.
Her locks show but faintest trace of

Now she, when at sixty, her countenance 

Her cheeks smooth and ruddy, her step 

soft and light,
A woman of thirty in vigor and might 

When heavy her burdens and trials may 

And she, for herself, some sweet solace 

would steal.
She instinctively turns to her tried 

friend, the wheeL 

When once in the saddle, out 'neath the 

blue sky.
Like a bird on its pinions, she seemeth 

to fly.
Her burdens are lifted, her spirits soar 


She dwells not on mem'ries of Joys that 

are flown.
How fleeting they were to her has been 

shown —
Now, dependent on none, she goes forth 


This, then, is the "up to date," "New Wo-
man's" code. 

This Nineteenth Century's practical

Of defying the years by "the fresh air
Ida Trafford Bell, in Imperial Magazine.
Some observing man discovered
(How I've never thought to ask) 

That Kentucky maiden's bloomers
Have a pocket for a flask; 

That the cycling girl of Texas
As she rides is not afraid — 

She provides a pistol pocket
When she has her bloomers made; 

That the bloomer girl of Boston, 

Always cool and wisely frowning,
Has a pocket in her bloomers. 

Where she carries Robert Browning;
That the Daisy Bell of Kansas, 

Who has donned the cycling breeches,
Has a pocket in her bloomers 

Full of woman suffrage speeches;
That Chicago's wheeling woman. 

When her cycle makes rotations,
Has a special bloomer pocket 

Where she carries pork quotations;
That Milwaukee's cycling beauties. 

As they pedal day by day.
Have a tiny secret pocket 

Where a corkscrew's stored away;
That the Gotham bloomer damsel. 

Whom Manhattan dudes admire,
Has a tutti-frutti pocket 

Pull of gum to mend her tire. 

Toledo Bee.

Air—^^Farewellt but Whenever You Welcome the 


Have you never felt the fever of the
twirling, whirling wheel. 

Of the guiding and resisting of the shin-
ing cranks of steel;
Never felt your senses reel 

In the glamor and the gladness of the
misty morning sky, 

As the white road rushes toward you,
as the dew-bathed banks slip by.
And the larks are soaring high? 

Never known the boundless buoyance of 

the billowy, breesy hiUs,
Of the pine scents all around you, and 

the running, rippling rills*
Chasing memory of life's ills;
Dashing, flashing through the sunshine, 

by the windy wold and plain.
The distant blue heights luring, onward, 

upward, to the strain
Of the whirling wheels' refrain? 

Fled from prison, like a prisoner, sped 

the turning, spuming wheel.
Changed the city's stir and struggling. 

jar and vexing, none can heal.
For the peace the fields reveal.
And with spirit separate, straining above 

the town's low reach.
Found a tender satisfaction, which the 

steadfast summits teach?
In their silence— fullest speech. 

Never known the wistful, wand'ring 

back, in pleasurable pain?
Met the kine from milking sauntering to
pastures sweet again.
Straggling up the wide-marged lane?
You have never felt the gladness, nor 

the glory of the dream
That exalts, as tired eyes linger still on
sunset, mead and stream?
Haste, then! Taste that bliss su-

iMttdTH Sketch,
Some observing man discovered
(How I've never thought to ask) 

That Kentucky maiden's bloomers
Have a pocket for a flask; 

That the cycling girl of Texas
As she rides is not afraid — 

She provides a pistol pocket
When she has her bloomers made; 

That the bloomer girl of Boston, 

Always cool and wisely frowning,
Has a pocket in her bloomers. 

Where she carries Robert Browning;
That the Daisy Bell of Kansas, 

Who has donned the cycling breeches,
Has a pocket in her bloomers 

Full of woman suffrage speeches;
That Chicago's wheeling woman. 

When her cycle makes rotations,
Has a special bloomer pocket 

Where she carries pork quotations;
That Milwaukee's cycling beauties. 

As they pedal day by day.
Have a tiny secret pocket 

Where a corkscrew's stored away;
That the Gotham bloomer damsel. 

Whom Manhattan dudes admire,
Has a tutti-frutti pocket 

Pull of gum to mend her tire. 

Toledo Bee.

HO V A VOMAN SHOULD MOUNT. Air-‘- Afollie Baion,” To mount the wheel with perfect grace, First see the pedals are In place; The right the center half around. The left the nearest to the ground. 72 Draw back the wheel a little, thus, To give it proper impetus. Your hands upon the handle bar Should he as dainty touches are. Then press with rigrht foot, till you see The inside pedal rising right Describes the circle, sinks from sight; But e’er it meets your foot once more You’re mounted and the lesson’s o’er. Chicago Inter-Ocean, AFTER THE CONCUSSIOR Take her up tenderly. Lift her with care. Fashioned so slenderly. Young and so fair. What a sad slip of hers, How she was flying — ‘Twas a fast clip of hers — Low is she lying! Loop up her tresses Escaped from the comb. Whilst wonderment guesses Why she boycotted dresses And where is her home? Who is her father? Who is her mother? Is this her only pair? Has she another? Or can it be that she’s Slashed those below the knees Owned by her brother? Take her up tenderly. Lift her with care, Fashioned so slenderly — JjMLYe her wheel there. 73 How it is battered, and How it is spattered, and Covered with mud! When she struck that hanana peel All in this block could feel The violent quaking: And rocking and shakinfir. And hear the dull thud. Take her up tenderly. Fashioned so slenderly— See, she’s all rigrht. But her bloomers don’t cover her; Throw a sheet over her— Hide her from sight. Touch her not scornfully; Think of her mournfully Limping away! When she descended Her scorching was ended For many a day. Cleveland Ltadmr. HIS SAGE SUCCESSOR. Air—” Raw Recruits,” or *» Abraham’s Itoughter.** There was a man who bought a wheel. He bought it for his wife. And through the streets this man would reel A-risking of his life: Just so his wife could learn to ride. With swift and agile bounds. He galloped onward by her side — She weighed two hundred pounds. Of course he couldn’t keep the pace. And soon he traveled hence; His love a tandem now doth grace— Her second hub has sense! elect land Plain Otofor. 71 THE SCORCHER. I do notp In the crowded street Of cab and “bus” and mire, Nor In the country lane so sweet, Hope to escape thy tyre. One boon, oh. Scorcher, I implore, With one petition kneel, At least abuse me not before Thou break me on thy wheel. Cliju. THE COMING WHEEL. The strange, mysterious cycle which “They say” we’re sure to see — The wonderous wheel that never is but Always is to be, — Is very slow in coming, but they tell us Every year To wait a little longer for they’ve got it — Pretty near. They’ll do away with friction, and the Gear will be so high. The merest pressure of the foot will Make it simply fly. And up the very steepest hill ’twill be a Joy to coast, — Don’t buy until you see it, for they’ve Worked it out— almost. The old time laws of power they have Simply set at naught, — They’ve found a brand new principle. Men never dreamed or thought; They’ve Just a few small details yet They have to figure out. And then will ride the wonder, for They’ve got it— Just about. L. A. W. Biil/etin. 75 THE TURBAN A-WHKHL. Air—” ManellaiBe,^* The Ameer of Afgrhanistan has become a victim of the eyeliner erase. — ^Dally paper. Behold, behold, Ye Afghans bold, For the Ameer of Kabul, With his dark-skinned lass Through the Khyber Pass, Spins on from the cycle school! He scorches afar Through Kandahar And templed Jelalabad, Where from Kafristan The Kataghan Stands aghast at his daring fad. Then back they flee By old Ghasni, By many a Pathan pool. And he kisses the lass In the Khyber pass, ‘Ere they stop at old Kabul. New York IS-tm. TEMPORA MUTANTUR. Once on a time, in days gone by. When girls rode on their wheels. They used to wear their skirts so lOBff, Down to their very heels. But now they say that “times are changed.” For every girl we meet Wears bloomers or has bikers on. And in them looks quite neat. F»rcy A. Athertvn, in L A. IK. IK. BuUetin. 76 A BENEDICTION. God bless the wheel! the whirlhig wheel! That wakens the world’s unmeasured zeal. And makes a man of my torture feel Like praising the same alway. For it’s taken the maid next door, who sought To daily pound the piano-forte, To another brand of athletic sport That bears her miles away. Boston Courier. YOUNG LOCHINVAR. Oh, young Lochinvar is come out of the West, Through all the wide border his wheel was the best. And, save his new air-pump, he weapon had none — He rode like the wind and he rode all alone. When he humped up his back and bent over the bar No other could scorch like the young Lochinvar. He stayed not for brake and he stopped not for stone; He rode on the sidewalks where oops there were none. But ere he alighted at Netherby gat« A dastard on foot hit him over the pate; So, when he “came to” he went home in a car — Thus endeth the story of young Lochiiv- var. Cleveland Leader. 77 BAARIE^ FIRST RIDE. How well do I recall Those pleasant nights in fall. When I was being taught To ride a wheel. A bicycle, it’s true, is best When not in use. But standing up beside A good old tree. If that bicycle could talk As fast as it could walk, ‘Tls hard to guess What stories it might tell; For I learned my lesson best While we sat down to rest And the bicycle leaned Agcdnst a good old tree. Jldrte, in Botton Olobe. TRANSFORMATION, A woman she had always been To me, A fine, fair form of femin- ity. A woman such as any man Would own A type of that which Nature’s plan Has grown. But now, in light of craze that reigns Supreme, In view of what Time’s whim ordains A dream. This woman, so the facts to me Reveal, Turns out continuously to be A-wheel. l^nnerviUe Jaumal. 78 THE ALL-CONQUERING BIKE* In the begrinning, Ere the artificer Built him the wood thing Named the Celerifere, Baron von Draise — Four years from Waterloo — Vengefully pondering, Impotent Gaul, As he heard how the thunder Of Wellington’s soldiery, England’s artillery. Wheeled through the world — Qrinning, he scrawled In the dust with his walking stick A shape for a sign. Two circles; circumference Perfectly flawless, Joined and united them. One, indissoluble, (Wondrous intelligent!) That was the birth of me; I am the Bike. High and round, rude and haughty. Big-wheeled, little saddled, I froze into steel; And he knew me and named me, Bone shaker. Velocipede, Father of Bicycles, Winger of woman. Banishing petticoats, Bringing the female (Long since irrational) Rational dress. Ho! then the polish And pride of my ministry. Ho! then, the gleam Of my glittering nickel-plate. Ho! then, the park. And the pleasaunce of Battersea. 7ft Ho! then, the hose Of my deftly shod womankind. I, the ubiquitous Angrel of Exercise, I am the Bike. Mount, then, my children. Follow, O follow me. Forth through the daylight Into the shadowland. (Time to light up!) RuBh by the omnibus, Halting not, tiring not. Pedaling evenly Over the stones. On, till the turbulent Traffic grows fainter. All of you, each of you. Clerk from the counting house. Peer from imperious Portals of Westminster, “Devils” from Fleet street. Maidens from Lock hart’s. Costers from Whitechapel. Follow, O follow, then, Follow the Bike. I am the coin maker. Hark, through the deathly Depression of Stock Exchange, Hark, how the companies Limitless, limited Under the Act, Spring into life At the touch of my wheel. See them capitalize Million on million. Gear case and Handle Bar, Wallet and Tyre; Everything patented. Everything profiting. Mark the advertisements — 80 Vast, multitudinous — All the world conquered. All things subservient, I alone triumphing, I the Victorious, I am the Bike. St. James Gazette. THE SEVEN AGES OF BICYCLING. All the world’s a-wheel. And all the cyclers merely tired! They have their enmities as to a choice of bike And one man in his time has many falls— His acts being seven ages. At first the pollywog Wiggling and sprawling from his train- er’s arms; Then the whining and discouraged tyro, creeping Tremulous and fearful unwilling from the adamant floor Back to the wheel; and then, all hopeful, talkative of when That blissful day shall come, and he with mistress ride A tandem to the happy courts of Love! Then a bikest in full measure, seeking the bubble Notoriety As a trick cycler; colliding with an alderman In huge proportions, beer and capon lined, With eyes severe, our cycler vanishes behind a prisoner’s dock: The sixth age shifts, and into his lean and plaided pantaloons With fearsome mien and real faint- heartedness, 81 His little hoard well Miv’d for purpose! Known right well by his bike, which dls- Rrranged, And spokes uncombed awaits Its mas- ter’s baU! And his big, manly voice, turning to a childish treble, pipes “Ay, guilty. Honor!” winds whistling In his sound; Liast scene of all, that ends a wheel- man’s Chess and Checkered history Is cyclomania, oblivion to else Save gear, save spoke, save tire, save scorching! N9W Orlea$u TiKU9-DmiUfcrai, SONG OF THE CYCLE. This is the toy, beyond Aladdin’s dream- ing. The magic wheel upon whose hub is wound All roads, although they reach the world around, O’er western plains or orient deserts gleaming. This is the skein from which each day unravels Such new delights, such witching flights, such Joys Of bounding blood, of glad escape from noise. Such ventures beggaring old Crusoe’s travels. It is as if some mighty necromanoer. At king’s command, to please his lady’s whim. Instilled such virtue in a rubber rim And brought it forth as his triumphant answer, 82 For wheresoe’er Its shlninff spokes are fleeting Fair benefits springr upward from its tread. And eyes grow bright and cheeks all rosy red. Responsive to the heart’s ecstatic beat- ing. Thus youth and age, alike in healthful feeling. And man and maid who find their paths are one Crown this rare product of our cen- tury’s “run” And sing the health, the joy, the grace of wheeling. Charlei 8. CrandcUl^ in Touth*» Companion. LAMENT FROM THE CRADLE. Air—^’Billy O’RourkeV Up from the cradle came a wall, At first a pensive coo; Into a weird, vociferous wail Of mournfulness it grew. His sorrow, in a vein prolix, He struggled to reveal, “My father’s talking politics, And mother rides a wheel.” “They say I’m cross. I’m simply sad At being slighted so. I wish the baby-carriage fad Could somehow get a show. How can you blame one in my fix For setting up a squeal? My father’s talking politics. And mother rides a wheel.” Wcuhington Evening Star. 83 MARY^ RESCUE. Manr’s beau brought her a “bike,” Enamelled flashing red. And everywhere that Mary went, “Just look at her,” they said. She rode it to the fields one day. Where roamed a surly cow. She screamed for aid, and the nelghbOTS came. And picked her off a bough. New York Teiearam. IN PASTORAL ENGLAND. One of our bishops makes complaint that cyclists will not go to church; They go for Sunday rides, he sasrs, and leave their shepherds in the lurch; But if this truly be the case, and Sunday cycling is a passion. Why don’t our clergymen attempt to cope with it in Yankee fashion? For in America, it seems, when cyclers go for Sunday “spins,” An agile parson with them rides and when they halt his turn begins; For, as in sylvan shades they sit to rest, or, perhaps, a tire to mend. He gives them from some telling text the special sermon he has penn’d. An excellent idea this! Why not in Eng- land, too, prepare A corps of zealous athlete priests ready to cycle anywhere? Why not equip a curate band to “wheel” away as Sunday dawns. And preach a fitting homily, between the sets on tennis lawns? 84 Nay, why should not some ardent soul, such as from peril never shrinks, Go forth and press the claims of truth on those who golf on famous links? Chiding the men who boast that they have been right round in seventy- eight, And bidding them a warning take from Ananias’ sad fate! Then might our clergy find again the straying sheep they’d lost so long, And strengthen others’ morals whilst they make their own weak muscles strong; And bishops would not have to mourn each time the bells rang in the steeple. That people did not seek the church — for then the church would seek the people! Exchange. ‘ I SHOT AN ARROW INTO THE AIR. Young Tommy bought a bow and arrow Wherewith to kill the wily sparrow — A bird in every sense too fly At Tommy’s unskilled hand to die. Young Tommy shoots in vain all day. At last he tries another way; He shuts his eye and points above; And, lo! he spits a little dove! Fair Laura on her bike so fleet, Was hoping that her Charles she’d meet, When suddenly the dove fell flat (Without her knowledge) on her hat. 85 Her best younflr man was walking by. And chanced the incident to spy; “You wear a bird upon your head?” “You’re surely Joking, Charles r* she said. AH, WOEFUL CHANGE. My love was much fairer than dream girls The greatest of artists ere drew; B^ach cheek like a rosebud reclining On billows of pearl -tinted dew. Her eyes, like twin stars in the asure, Qleamed bright ‘neath her rippling hair — Ah, never was picture so dainty. None ever so sweet and fair. But alas for those pearl-tinted cheeklets, Alas for those blue eyes, alack! Alas for that smile like an angel’s, Alas for that hump on her back! My love once as fair as the springtime Has vanished, and there in her place Is a “scorcher,” decked out in loud bloomers. And wearing a bicycle face. Geo. V. Hobart, in Neinraika State JowndL ANOTHER TRADE. Under the spreading chestnut tree The village smithy stands. The smith a lonely man is he, With large but useless hands. His trade was good in former years At shoeing horses’ heels. He has not learned, it now appears, To mend the broken wheels. Detroit yinPM, 86 SAVED. Air— -^ Dan IVcfc«r.** A bloomer girl Just left her wheel; A lurking: piece Of orange peel. A careless step, A sudden slip, A scream, a fall, A fatal rip. A man at hand With mackintosh, A garment Just The thing, begosh! The bloomer girl Raised from the ground, The garment wrapped Her form around. A store at hand; The maid has gone; Airs over and The band plays on. Chicago Times HeraJd, COMPENSATION. When I go a-wheeling with Polly I can’t go as fast as I’d like; For, though she is clever and Jolly She’s only Just learning to bike. So we spin along at our leisure; I let others fly by, and I smile — For when I am riding for pleasure, A miss is as good as a mile. Judge. 87 A VORD OF FEAR. There is a word so “beastly bad” (To use an English phrase) It often drives some people mad. And darkens all their days. The word is hideous, coarse and mean; It makes me fairly roar; I wish it never might be seen. Or heard of any more. I wish the man who used it first, The “father” of that word. Had swollen up and dried and burst- Before ’twas ever heard. And if he still remains alive. Engaged in earthly strife, To find and catch him let us strive, And shut him up for life. ‘Tis wrong to call the thing a word; Its very looks will show That it is awkward and absurd, And vulgar, vile and low. It has no derivation, kind Or class; all that is plain. Merely to call the thing to mind Gives decent men much pain. The noises made in filing saws. By creaking chains and wheels. Are music to this word, because, A fellow always feels That sometime they will have to cease — Prolong them as you like; But, oh! what angel will release Our eyes and ears from— “BIKE.” Chicago Observer, 88 A GREAT CHANGE. I used to know a quiet lane Where lovers oft would stray, And whisper tender vows of love When twilight closed the day. No more this shady, cool retreat Is sought by couples shy, Since every novice In the town Goes there his wheel to try. N. F. Milbumj in Sun, A CATECHISM. What bend’s men’s figure to an S? The Bicycle. While ladies ride with gracefulness? The Bicycle. And what makes Daphne with alarm. From sudden spill foreboding harm. Yield her slim waist to Damon’s arm? The Bicycle. What makes Amanda save and scrape? The Bicycle. Till she can buy the latest shape Of bicyle. What makes a Joint last days on days, Turned and returned in sundry ways Of hash, rissoles, and rechauffes? The Bicycle. What plays the deuce with Yankee trade? The Bicycle. What’s now the onlv “notion” made? The Bicycle. What makes the carriage builder slack. What cheapens cob and nag and hack. While the financiers boom and crack? The Bicycle. 89 What turns the scholar to a dunce? The Bicycle, He rides (he used to study once) The Bicycle. Why are neurotic novels shut. And minor poets all uncut. And everythinsT neglected— but The Bicycle. St. Jameg Ckumtte. IN THESE MCYCXE DAYS. Tom, Tom, the Piper’s son. He stole a wheel, and away he run; But a copper fleet Young Tom could beat. And they locked him up in Harrison street. Jack Spratt’s Trousers would flap. His wife, she made her’s tlgrht, And so between the two, you see, They kept the average right. Peter, Peter, pumpkin eater. Had a wife and couldn’t keep her. Took an axe and smashed her bike^ So she had to stay at home at night. Hey-diddle-diddle. The bicycle riddle. The strangest part of the deal; Just keep your accounts, And add the amounts; The “sundries” cost more than the wheel. There was a man in our town As wise as were our sires; He ran across a piece of glass, And punctured both his tires; And when he saw the air was out, With all his might and main, He took his little nickel pump, And pushed it in again. Little Tommy Titmouse Worked for a cycling house. Went to his meals On other men’s wheels. Ding-dong bell. There’s the man who fell. Who knocked him down? The meanest man in town. Who called the “cop?” A man who saw him drop. What a wicked man was that. To try to kill the cyclist fat. Who never did him any wrong. But kept a-pedaling right along. Chicago Tribune, MAUDMULLER* Maud Mullcr, on a summer’s day, Mounted her wheel and rode away. Beneath her blue cap glowed a wealth Of large red freckles and flrst-rate health. Singing, she rode, and her merry glee Frightened the sparrow from his tree. But when she was several miles from town. Upon the hill-slope, coasting down. The sweet song died, and a vague unrest And a sort of terror filled her breast-* 01 A fear that she hardly dared to own. For what if her wheel should strike a stone! The Judsre scorched swiftly down the road — Just then she heard his tire explode! He carried his wheel into the shade Of the apple trees, to await the maid. And he asked her if she would kindly loan Her pump to him, as he’d lost his own. She left her wheel with a sprightly Jump, And in less than a Jiffy produced her pump. And she blushed as she gave it, looking down At her feet, once hid by a trailing gown. Then said the Judge, as he pumped away, •• ‘Tis very fine weather we’re having to-day.” He spoke of the grass and flowers and trees; Of twenty-mile runs and centuries; And Maud forgot that no trailing gown Was over her bloomers hanging down. But the tire was fixed, alack-a-day! The Judge remounted and rode away. Maud Muller looked and sighed, “Ah me! That I the Judge’s bride might be! “My father should have a brand new wheel Of the costliest make and the finest steeL 92 “And I’d give one to ma of the same design. So that she’d cease to borrow mine.” The Judge looked back, as he climbed the hill. And saw Maud Muller standing stilL “A prettier face and a form more fair I’ve seldom gazed at, I declare! “Would she were mine, and I to-day Could make her put those bloomers away!” But he thought of his sisters, proud and cold. And shuddered to think how they would scold If he should, one of these afternoons. Come home with a bride in pantaloons! He married a wife of richest dower. Who had never succumbed to the bloom- ers* power; Yet, oft while watching the smoke wreaths curl. He thought of that freckled bloomer girl; Of the way she stood there, pigeon-toed, While he was pumping beside the road. She married a man who clerked in a store, And many children played round her door. And then her bloomers brought her Joy! She cut them down for her oldest boy. 98 But Btill of the Judge she often thought. And Bierhed o’er the loss that her bloom- eni wrought. Or wondered If wearing them was a sin. And then confessed: “It might have been.” Alas for the Judge! Alas for maid! Dreams were their only stock in trade. For of all wise words of tongue or pen. The wisest are these: “Leave pants for men!” Ah, well! For us all hope still remains— For the bloomer grirl and the man of brains, And. in the hereafter, bloomers may Be not allowed to block the way! Buffalo Commereial, THE MASCULINE WStL O for some other land than this, in any sort of zone. Where females still are females^ where new women are unknown! Where the eternal fitness of all things there’s naught to Jar! Where women wear no clothes of men, their forms divine to mar! Where clinging robes are still the style, as in the long ago, ‘Till bicycles brought pantaloons and plunged us into woe! May some new Moses lead us soon to that thrice-blessed shore. Where the bloomers cease from bloom- ing and the panties pant no more! Chas. J, Colton^ in New Orleans Times-Demoorai, 94 ONCE UPON A TIME. There once was a time when a fellow could take His girl out alone on a tandem, And know he could easily come to a spot For a spoon that was quiet — at ran- dom. But now things have changed, the lover who’s wise. No more in the country will roam. While brothers and sisters all cycling have gone. He sticks to the sofa at home. Bicycling New». IN ALL SEASONS. Go riding in the springtime, €rO riding in the summer, When the heat is up to 99, And you think you are a hummer. Go riding in the winter, Go riding in the fall, And that, my friends, you’ll surely find. The grandest time of all. New York Telegram. TO A CYCLER. High rolling cycler! pilgrim of the land, Thou dost despise the earth where cares abound. And lov’st thy wheel, whose well-filled rubber band With sudden puncture, casts thee to the ground, That cold, hard ground, where safeties drop at will The fool who tries to coast on them down hill. 96 To thy pn<?umatic saddle, not beyond. Mount, daring: rider! Thy most ardent strain In praise of safeties, a ne’er failing bond. Is still ‘twixt thee and that long list of slain. Who, though they sprinkle all the earth with gore, The praises of the wheel sing ever- more. Leave to the nightingale the shady woods, A blaze of glorious open road is thine. And if thou hast a score of bruises, floods Of misery and curses not divine. Thou art a type of those most wise, who roam Far from the kindred points of heaven and home! My heart leaps up when I behold A bicycle pass by. So was it not when I began. So is it not with every man Who ofttimes in the dust has rolled Without a cry. I ride my wheel where’er I can. And I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by wheeling merrily. Mary F. Nixon, in Ktw York Sun. PRIDE MUST HAVE A FALL. Air- ‘ Beautiful Isle of the fieaV She was tall and fair and twenty. Her papa had rocks in plenty. And she dreamed this little universe Was hers by right of birth. 96 She was saucy to her mother, Domineered her elder brother, And her bearing indicated That she thought she owned the earth. But she found herself mistaken, And her faith was rudely shaken When she tried to ride her wheel across A little streak of mud. And the way that wheel impacted her, And the ground rose up and smacked her. Was a caution to this Boston maid, Who boasted Pilgrim blood. Somerville Journal, VADSr HER WISH* Air— *^ My Boat is on the Shore.”” Oh, for a day at the ocean’s shore. Or a day at the mountains high. Away from the heat of the city street In the fierce month of July! So the maiden said; but — alackaday For the many things we like! It takes every cent that she earns to pay The installments on her bike. Boston Courier. THE GIRL FOR HDVL He doesn’t care for the biking girl Who shows her shapely limbs. Nor for the one in the wavelet’s whirl Who screams and dives and swims. But the pretty girl is his delight, Who sits upon the sand, And screens him with her sunshade bright And lets him squeeze her hand. Boston Courier, 97 A mCYCXE MISADVENTURE. A week had sped since we had seen her Most winsome in her gay demeanor Above a heart’s impatient flutter Some bit of Jocund news to utter; “I’ve teased and teased till ma, de- mented. Has to a wheel at last consented, Since nothing else would keep me quiet; And when it’s dusk I’m going to try it. With Jack to aid me — for he’s told me With needless fervor he can hold me; And when o’er asphalt or o’er cobbles The wheel no longer tilts or wobbles And I can ride in a sedate way Behold me halting at your gateway!” And off Lou ran with pretty merriment In forecast of her new experiment. A week ensued — who is this being The dusk forbids us clearly seeing? She falters, and ah, from her step it Would seem that she is quite decrepit; Nay, more; across her face a plaster Denotes that she has borne disaster. Poor thing — and as she pushes open The gate and slowly seeks to grope in. We ask in tones of real urbanity: — “What do you wish?” “Oh, some profan- ity, A bath, a wardrobe and an ocean Or two of any sort of lotion!” “Why, Lou, what ails you?” “I’m a jumble Of smash and sewage — had a tumble From the vile wheel and with a thud Just at a place whose name is Mud; Perhaps, in time the cobbles soften If scorchers ride above them often; I set my face against them all But not as when I had my fall, 98 And then upon the plaster lingers The touch of her uplifted fingrers; ”It’s really somethinsr like a drawback To have bruised features and a raw back; No wretched wheel for me hereafter And if Jack dares to crow with laugrhter Because to-night I went with him I’ll reason have enough to doubt him And bid him go and marry any New girl who can be such a zany. In one short week how old I’ve grrown In every sinew, nerve and bone; I want a cap with heavy ruffles And wrinkles, spectacles and snuffles. And now I limp off home a cripple.” And as she went, the old laugh’s ripple Upon the night gave welcome token Of spirits, years and bones unbroken. Helen Pitkin^ in New Orleans Times-Democrat. MARY^ DRESS* When Mary rides a bicycle, She wears a natty suit, With leggings trim and saucy cap. And oh she is a “beaut!” She doesn’t wabble on her wheel. But sits up straight and fair, And, seeing her, the men all stop To watch her everywhere. When Harry rides a bicycle. He straps his trousers tight Around his ankles in a bunch. And oh they are a sight! He humps his back like an old cat. In most ungraceful crooks, And every one who sees him says, “How bad that fellow looks!” 99 The moral of this bit of verse Is plain enousrh, I sruess; It is that bicyclists should be Most careful how they dress. A wheel makes one conspicuous, And one brought in the sigrht Of thousands of his fellow men Should try to dress just right. Sonierville JoumcU. LOVE^ TRANSFORMATION* Air^” Life Let Us Cherish^ No more unto the myths of old Sweet Love delighted clings. For Love rides on a bicycle, And Love has lost his wings. No more the romance of the past A pleasing thrill imparts. For Love upon a bicycle Now chases human hearts! Alas! the happy, happy days! But — cool my burning brow; For Love wheels down the dusty ways, And Love’s a scorcher now! Atlanta Constitution. ONE OF MANY* Take her up tenderly. Lift her with care; Fashioned so slenderly. Young and so fair! One more unforch- Unate — pardon our weep — Trying to scorch And she’s all in a heap. L. A. W. BuUetin, 100 THE SCORCHERS SOLILOQUY* I am monarch of all I survey; My right there is none to dispute. When folks hear me rushing on they Are pretty dead certain to scoot. Oh, golly, how great are the charms That I know when I set a swift pace! And how I enjoy breaking arms. And, now and then, spoiling a face. Cleveland Plain Dealer. THE BELLS* Hear the cycles with the bells — Warning bells! What a world of worrlment Their melody foretells! How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, Everywhere by day and night. While the paths they oversprinkle And the cops’ eyes seem to twinkle With a devilish delight! What a fuss, fuss, fuss, How the nervous people cuss At the tintinnabulation that forever Swells and swells. From the jangling of those warning ‘cycle bells! Hear the loud alarm bells — ‘Cycle bells! What a tale of terror Their loud rumble jumble tells! In the startled ear of night How they scream out their affright; Men too horrified to speak. Sit down in the mud and shriek, For the ear don’t fully know By the twanging And the clanging 101 Wbere srreat dang^erB ebb and flow; Yet distinctly somethinsr tells In the Jangrlinsr And the wransrlincr That there’s dang:er near those bells, That there’s trouble near those bells, Near those clamoringr, clansringr, clash- insT ‘cycle bells! Hear those buzzingr ‘cycle bells — Dreadful bells! What a state of misery Their ding:-a-lingr foretells! Throug:h the balmy air of nigrht Women run from them in frigrht. Scared to death! Men who want to gret the breeze Run and hide behind the trees Out of breath! Oh! from out those awful bells What a grush of lunacy voluminously Swells. With the nervous! Hear their yells! For their frigrhtened mind rebels At the Jingrle, Jingle, Jingrle Of the bells, bells, bells. Of the herky, jerky, Jingrlingr ‘cycle bells! New York Journal. AN ASPIRATION. She bringrs my heart to my mouth, I wean, And all my attention wins. The sweet and beautiful bicyclene As along the road she spins. As she takes the lead of the trolley car. With a spurt that shows her sand; How I wish that I were the handle bar That she grasps with her lily hand! Boston Courier. 102 A SIGHT. I saw a g:irl Amid the whirl, She’d g:olden hair, Her face was fair, Her garments fine, Her form divine. With eyes like stars. She rode a bike And such a sigrht! She drove her steed At scorchers’ speed. Her back was humped, Her head near bumped The handle bars. Buffalo Courier. BIKE, BIKE, BIKE* Bike, bike, bike. On the cold gray stones O wheel! And I would that my lips could mutter The cuss words that I feel. Oh, well for the messenger boy That he scorches so boldly away! Oh, well for the Bowery belle That she rides in her bloomers so gay! And the cycling steeds go on To the road house under the hill — But alas! for me, with my punctured tire, I fear I never will. Bike, bike, bike. To the best of thy speed, O wheel! “We are fully fifteen miles away From a bed and a good square meal. Grace F. Reed^ in New York Advertiser. 103 A MORNING SPIN. Afirain I mount to whirl along: The singriniT breeze, (The world hath not another song So like to please!) By hedges green, through leafy wood, O’er meadow wide, A Joy-compelling Robin Hood, I noiseless glide. Yon swallow sailing through the sky Hath greater need Of man’s companionship than I Upon this steed. What fragrant odors where I run, And merry chimes. And songs (O, sweet unworded one Of mellow rhymes!) Embow’rlng trees, the waving corn. Gay winding brook. And dew-drops flashing to the morn Where e’er I look, Yon swallow sailing through the sky Hath greater need Of man’s companionship than I Upon this steed. O wond’rous offspring of the mind, Thou art a precious prize! Thou bear’st me swifter than the wind Beneath the smiling skies. Half drunken with the Joy I feel. Sweet Zephyr-fanned, A conqueror of time I reel Through fairy land. Yon swallow sailing through the sky Hath greater need Of man’s companionship than I Upon this steed. Charles Eugene Banks, in Chicago Observer. 104 LAWS OF THE WHEELMEN. Oh, these are the Laws of the Wheel- men, And many and mighty are they; But the saddle and frame of the Law, And the pedals and wheels— is “Obey!” When approaching: a man coming toward you, Turn right, without fail, without flaw, But if from behind you o’ertake him. Then pass to the left is the Law. Be courteous to friend, foe and stranger; “Let your tools be as theirs,” reads the Code; Be ready to offer assistance. The Golden Rule holds on the road. If you meet men on foot at a crossing. Ring once if you wish to pass front; But if you glide softly behind them, Though you’re itching to ring it — yet don’t. (‘Tis needless, and causes ill-temper). Be thoughtful of people around. Nor lead them to think you are ringing Because you are pleased with the sound. Ride slowly within city limits; Have your wheel ever under command. Dismount when a horse becomes fright- ened; If a driver be scared lend a hand. Light lamps when the statutes provide it; Keep well in the law— nor do less If the law be unjust, but remember The ballot will grive you redress. Be temperate in all things, and modest; Don’t scorch nor curl up like a “monk.” And never drink deep when you’re rid- ing. And seven times never get drunk. Sit fairly erect in the saddle; Whether seen or unseen, be a man. And never ride hills Just to show off. Nor ride quite as far as you can. Then ride for the pleasure of riding, For the blessing of health, and give heed To the beauty of nature about you; But ride not for mileage nor speed. F. J. Madbeth, inL A,W. BHUeUn, HOV THEY B ROUGH T THE GOOD NEWS* I sprang to the seat with a dexterous bound. And I put down my foot as the pedal came round. “Good -by,” cried our hostess; “Qood-by,” cried the wits, “We will follow to-morrow to pick up the bits.” The door closed behind us; the lights sank to rest, And into the midnight we wobbled abreast. Then we raced down the road at the fiercest of rates. And the cows came to peer at us over the gates; Up hill and down dale; on the slope, on the flat, My brave little bicycle flew like a bat, 106 And I would have stroked and caressed it, you know, Like the man in the poem, but I dare not let go. The gleam of our lamps danced about on the way. And their fra^rrance uprose with the scent of the hay; And the rustic historian with trembling tells How he listened that night to the ting of our bells, While the moon hanging over the pop- lar trees shone With a critical gaze at us wobbling on. But a dismal adventure remains to be said. For I rashly attempted to turn round my head; And my bicycle, wroth at such empty pretense, Bore me in an instant full tilt at the fence. They gathered us up; I was sound and entire. But my gallant pneumatic had punctured a tire. Then the people to whom the good news had been brought. When we came to the place gathered round as they ought; And they fetched a solution of rubber beside. With a patent hand pump, which they vigorously plied. For the burgesses said they could scarce- ly refuse To pump up the machine that had brought the good news. Pall Mall Gazette. 107 TO MY CYCLE. Dear other self, so silent, swift and sure. My dumb com];>anlon of delicrhtful days. Mighty fairy Angers from thy orbit rays Of steel strike music, as the gods of yore From reed or shell, what melodies would pour On my glad ears; what songs of wood- land ways. Of summer’s wealth of com, or the sweet lays Of April’s budding green; while ever- more We twain, one living thing, flash like the light Down the long tracks that stretch from sky to sky. Thou hast thy music, too, what time the noon Beats sultry on broad roads; when, gath- ering night, We drink the keen-edged air; or, dark- ling, fly ‘Twixt hedgerows blackened by a mys- tic moon. Adriel Vere^ in The Spectator. MARY. Mary had a little bike. On it she went a-riding, She met a brick, which swiftly sent Her on the road a-sliding. A youth, it chanced, was passing by. He saw her plight, and tarried. He helped to set her right end up. Now little Mary’s married. New York Commercial Advertieer. 108 TO THE CyER-BENT CYCLIST. Oh, youth, who bending forward, rides apace. With melancholy stamped upon your face. Pursuing pleasure with a frenzied eye, Yet mocked by her, however fast you fly. Are you aware how horrible you look? No guy invented for a picture-book Was ever a more painful sight than thou, Lord of the bent back and the anxious brow. Oh, sit up straight and try to wear a smile! Be less intent to pile up mile on mile. Enjoy the prospect as you glide along. The trees, the sunshine, and the robin’s song. To us who view you scorching day by day, Bent on your bar in such an awkward way, You are the homeliest thing on earth, my lad, Oh, sit up straight, and make the land- scape glad! Robert Grant, in Harper’s Weekly. LATEST PUZZLE. A biker asked a farmer, “Has a lady wheeled this way?” And the farmer told the biker, “It’s mighty hard to say. From the costumes they are wearing. From the mountains to the sea. If the biker is a she one. Or a biker is a he!” The Roaeleaf, 109 THE FERIALE SGORCHEIL I’m a dashingr modem woman On a wheel, You have seen the imitation; I’m the real. I can wear the knickerbockers, Pressed in patent safety lockers. Shirts and shoes and dashing- cady — Made for gent and worn by lady A good deal. I can talk the sprocket lingo Late and early; Chew the gum and swear “By Jingo!” Hair is curly. . Eyes are blue and big and dreamy; Hate the side of life called seamy. Love ice cream and matinees, Love a man that bets — and plays — When I’m surely. Girls are good enough, I reckon, In a pinch; But the boys are better fellows — That’s a cinch. I can ride a hundred miles. Climb the fences, jump the stiles. Mend my tires, file the cogs. And I fly from barking dogs Not an inch. Mother runs a clothing business Down town; Father cooks and bakes the biscuits. Bakes ’em brown. Brother knows the fancy stitches, Plays at tennis, sighs for riches; But I mount my wheel and skurry Through the gaslit parks and hurry— Sans a gown. 110 Wish I had a beau to pace me Now and then; But I’m getting too rapid For the men. They all nod and toss me kisses; Swear I’m speediest of misses; Marry girls with great, long skirts, Go to church on Sunday morning, Dizzy whirl of cycles scorning — Now and then Darn the men! Chicago Evening Post. THE SCORCHER* The scorcher tore full furiously Along the busy street, Unmindful of the obstacles That he perchance might meet. He scorned to heed the warning cries, That record-breaking chump! And he ran plump on a coal cart — Now his wheel is on the dump. Philadelphia North American. READY FOR BUSINESS. Put away my bike and bloomers, For the snow’s begun to fall. How I’d like to find a climate Where it never snowed at all; Where ’twas always spring or summer, And the roads were smooth and dry, And the fellows were as thick as Johnny-jump-ups in July. Still, I must not sit repining. Though I’ve donned a longer skirt, I have not as yet forgotten By a long shot how to flirt. Cleveland Leader. Ill A PRISMATIC ANGEL. Air—'” The Rose IVce.” With lips so red That cherries are pink And eyes as blue As indigro ink, With blushing: cheeks Like an autumn rose, And silken hair As gold that glows, My bicycle girl skims down the street; Her tiny feet play hide and seek. In vain I try. From me she’ll fly. For sad to say With her ’tis play To ride in 2.10 And do it again, For my bicycle girl’s a scorcher. New York Evtning Telegram. THE QUEEN OF THE WHEEL. The queens of fashion and of love Of all the varied climes, From glorious Eighteen Ninety-six Back to remotest times, Had each her own peculiar fad In vehicles of speed; But Lady Alice on her “bike” Is far, far in the lead. The maids of ancient Athens drove A golden two-wheeled cart; The Roman had her chariot — A thing of wondrous art. The Persian girl her camel rides. The Chinese lass a chair; But gentle Alice on her wheel Is fairest of the fair. 112 The courtly dames of old Versailles Sedan chairs rode, you know; The Russian has her drosky, and Her sledge, the Esquimaux. The Irish lass, a Jaunting- car; A coach for London swells; But lovely Alice on her wheel Is fleetest of the belles. Yes, Lady Alice leaves them all Behind her in the race; With flashing eyes and rosy cheek She sets old Time a pace. Ah, what are all these turnouts, pray. Of poverty and state. Compared with queenly Alice on A “bike” right up to date? Nuggets. FAMILY SKELETON. She used to darn the baby’s hose, ” ” ” my own at call; ” ” ” yours truly, too, But now she doesn’t dam at all. She wheels by night, also by day; ” ” ” hours and hours; yet ” hasn’t learned the proper way To lift her bloomers out the wet. Judge. THE BEAUTIFUL SCORCHER. She rode along the road In a costume a la mode, And threw a gleam of sunshine on the pike. As she gripped the handle bar. And she beat the trolley car. And her golden hair was hangring down her bike. Boston Courier. 113 A PARODY FOR THE PRESENT. What though a lassie don the breek, Wi’ bloomers braw and a’ that ? We bend in adoration meek And are slaves, for a’ that. For a’ that and a’ that. The wheel bestrid and a’ that; Blythe Cupid’s eyes heed no disffuise. She shall be wooed, for a’ that. The warld may tremble at her call, Wi’ bonnet doffed and a’ that; Her voice may fill the council hall. She bides a lass for a’ that. For a’ that and a’ that, Our duds usurped and a’ that, The one who warks to pay the growd, He is the man, for a’ that. Wdthiftffton Star. KING TOMMYS RISE AND FALL. Tommy was ruled by his father and mother, Tommy was bossed by his older brother. Tommy was tyrannised over each hour By the very small maid with the face of a flower, But one day Tommy was given a wheel And he felt like a king on a throne of steel. Now a sudden rise from a serf to a king Has always proven a dangerous thing. The people who come into power too quick Qo up like a rocket and down like a stick. lU King- Tom, before the first day was done. Was Emperor, Sultan, and Czar in one. He owned the pavement, he owned the street, He ran the officers off their beat. He frightened the coachmen out of their wits As he scorched right under their horses’ bits. Pedestrians fled when they saw him ap- proach, He caused disaster to carriage and coach; For he never turned out and his pace never slowed; His bell was a signal to clear the road; And I would not repeat, indeed, not I, What the truckmen said when his bike went by. King Tom only winked in their eyes with a grin. Proud of his power to make them sin. And bolder and bolder each day he grew, And faster and faster his bicycle flew; And he was certain he owned the earth And all that was on it from girth to girth. And he always got ofC without hurt or scratch. Till all of a sudden he met his match. Reigning one time in his usual splendor. He came face to face with a Cable’s fender. He rang his bell for the right of way, But a biker may ring till his hair turns gray, And a Cable Car or its Cousin Trolley Will pay no heed to that sort of folly. All that King Tom recalls of that day Was riding into the milky way, Where he saw all the stars in the hea- vens. Well, There isn’t much more of his reign to tell. He gave his wheel to his brother Bill And walks on two crutches and always will. And he says as he looks at his wooden leg, “I went up like a rocket and down like a peg.” Ella Wheeler Wilcox, in The Swfi. THE WINTER CYCLIST. A wintry chill is in the atmosphere, As from the heaving lake the storm wind blows; And weak-kneed brethren of the cycle fear That brings the riding season to a close. Jack Frost assails us with his wicked thrusts; Our polka-dotted mufflers are on guard; And many a good wheel in the basement rusts Which should be speeding down the boulevard. 116 And shall we Join the patient, suffering throng, Which crowds the rumbling street cars to the door? Which kicks against the service loud and long, But keeps on riding as it did before? Nay! Perish such a thought. On every street The hardy wheelman has the right of way; No ancient female comes to claims his seat; No cable breaks, no lumbering teams delay. Our hearts beat high, our life-blood dancing flows. Though ice-flakes sparkle in the biting air; While street-car heaters, every patron knows, Are but a vain delusion and a snare. The steed that bore us through the woods aglow With sunshine, where the morning glories creep. Will bear us safely through the mud- streaked snow Until it lies at least five inches deep. Peter Orant, in Chicago Record. AHEAD OF THE NORTHERN WIND- No cellarage grim for the wheel that I own; No butterfly ways for me; No chair by the stove when King Frost from his throne Has whitened hill, moor and lea; 117 There’s life in the grip of the winter king’s hand, A tonic for heart and mind. Have ye tasted a spin o’er the snow- grirt land, Ahead of the Northern wind? When the sun creeps ruddily over the show Of glittering, glistening white, Coroneting the great trees’ burden of snow With a rich, warm, golden light; When the hedge’s coat shows a diamond woof And the wide flelds sleep behind; I say, have ye wheeled ‘neath the win- ter king’s roof. Ahead of the Northern wind? And ’tis good to be out from the town at night, When the moon swingrs high and clear. And beneath, the world in her radiant light Is silver’d afar and near; While the shimmering stars, in a quaint, mad reel, All the cloudless skies have lined. And the only sounds the whir of the wheel And the moan of the Northern wind. And the crunch of the tires on the snow sounds sweet, ‘Mid booms of the snow-wind’s threat; E’en the flight through the rush of the blinding sleet Offers nothing for regret; For the tune of the storm through the bending trees Has outlived the weary grind; 118 We recall but the race past the frozen Ahead of the Northern wind. Then that drop down the road, while the snowflakes blent, And dipp*d and toss’d and flew, And the aftermath, when — the storm clouds spent — The sun came glimmering through. Oh, I’ll grant that the breeze on a July day Blows blithely, soft and kind; But, say, have ye sprinted o’er the old highway Ahead of the Northern wind? V. E. 8., in Cycling. HOI FOR THE WHEEL. It’s ho! for a ride in the open, With the cool winds blowing free. And nothing but joy on dale and hill For my trusty wheel and me. It’s ho! for the dew of the morning That sparkles on leaf and spray, And ho! for the charm of the sunset light When the glad day fades away. With muscles that answer quickly To call of the resolute will, With cheeks that glow and eyes that shine And pulses that bound and thrill, I fly through the beautiful kingdom That beckons my wheel and me. Queen of the world of girlhood, And sovereign of all I see. Margaret E, Sangster, 119 SCORCHERS. Three scorchers went hustling down the street, Along the street, as the sun went down; As if they were trying a record to beat And the “coppers” were chasing them out of town; For fools must scorch, and fools must hump, And the less of a rider, the more of a chump. And they leave their victims groaning. Three corpses lay out on the pavement there. In the tracks of the wheels that the scorchers rode. And the ambulance came with a dash and a swear, And jounced away with its ghastly load; But the fools still ride, and the fools still hump, Who ought to be run out of town on the Jump. And the people will cease their groan- ing. Karl H. Wiseivell, in Rochester Democrat and Chronic/e, THE CURATES VIFE. Oh, sad Is the curate of Slowford-on- Slough, As he gloomily glides down the road; There’s a tear in his eye and a frown on his brow, As he thinks of the wife who is far from him now. Left behind in his distant abode. 1-20 And why is he grloomy, this soulful-eyed man, And why doth he ceaselessly rail At the follies and fads of the Grundyite clan, And fossils and fogies alternately ban — All that I’ll unfold in my tale. ‘Twas merrie, ’twas merrie, in Slowford- on-Slough, The lark was a-lilt in the sky, There were buds on the bramble and birds on the bough, From which, gentle reader, you’ll gather somehow That summer, sweet summer, was nigh. And, oh! there was joy in the curate’s abode. For he’d purchased a bike for his wife, On which she might glide whenever he glode. Or to him be tied whenever he towed, Thus doubling the pleasures of life. “Oh, Thomas, my happiness now is com- plete,” (Here she patted his sunburnt cheek), “My Journeys down town will now be a treat. There’ll be no more occasion for cabmen to cheat. And I’ll pay off those calls in a week!” « But Mrs. M’Fidget and Mrs. M’Fad Saw the fair Mrs. Thomas fly by. And the sight of her ankles, It seems, drove them mad Though, the road being muddy, they both of them had Lifted their skirts uncommonly high. 121 ”Such doinflrs, me dear, are too awful, my word! Just fancy a clergyman’s wife! She should be at home making custard and curd, Not darting about like some heathenish bird. Which I wouldn’t do for me life.” “I am sure you would not,” La M’F^dget replied, “But then you’re a leedy, me dear. And able as sich, ma’am, at once to de- cide What a leedy should do that Is dignified. And what is quite out of her spear.” “Now, what we must do is to start a crusade Against this she-dragon on wheels; So we’ll call on the Primses to lend us their aid. And the Prudes and the Prisms will help to upbraid This dame who her ankles reveals.” Then they called on the Croakers and ancient Miss Crock, Who rolled up her eyes with affright. And vowed that her hair stood on end with the shock (A remark at which we unregenerates mock As her toupee came off ev’ry night); And even the rector’s fine garments were rent (That’s a figure of speech, you’re aware). And when on next day to the pulpit he went 12-J He proved that pneumatics were cer- tainly meant When we speak of “The Powers of the Air.” Well, the end of it all, as no doubt you foresee, Was the bicycle had to be sold At a loss to the curate of L. s. and d.. And what makes the whole affair sad- dest to me Is the story is true that I’ve told. W. P, French, in Irish Cyclist. WHIRO-POROWHITA* Let’s borrow from a Southern clime. Now wheels are getting- fleeter, A word blessed with Satanic chime, ‘Tis whiro-porowhita. ‘Mong all the titles of our “bike,” Can one be found much neater? It’s just the term that you might like. This whlro-porowhlta. We owe it to the Maori Queen (A superstitious creature). Who dubbed the bike as soon as seen This whiro-porowhita. To those unskilled in Maori lore Who scan this little metre, “The devil’s wheel,” no less, no more. Means whiro-porowhita. Altho’ it savors of the “pit,” Of sulphur and saltpetre, “The Cycling World” it’s bound to “hit,” This whiro-porowhita. Cycling World. 123 PAUL REVERE^ JR.’S RIDE. Listen, my lovers, and you shall hear Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere, On May the thirtieth, ninety -six; Hardly a youth that is “up to tricks” But will always remember the day and year. He said to his love, “If your father still Refuses to grant our prayer, to-night At the hour of twelve, on your window sill. Tou will place a lamp as a signal light — One, if you stay, and two if we flee; And I in the lane below will be. Ready to ride to the parson wise, And to win forever the gracious prize Whose love shall be my paradise.” Then he said “Good night!” for a little while. His face lit up with a hopeful smile; He gave no heed to the “pit-a-pat” Of his heart, nor little things like that. He watched the moon rise over the bay And the river that lazily went its way, Bearing along a light canoe In which there nestled a blissful two So close you could scarce tell which was who. Meanwhile his friend, as a sweetheart should. With a plea and a prayer and sigh and tear. Was trying to win her father’s ear. But he would not listen to aught she said, Though she strove by every means she could; And she turned away, devoid of cheer. To seek, as her father thought, her bed. 124 She climbed the stair to her moonlit room. And hastily gathered the precious things — Some half-forgotten engagement rings (There’s ma.iy a bud not born to bloom, So strangely woven is the woof of fate!) Some pins to fasten her hat on straight, A few curl paper to crimp her hair. And then she paused and waited there From her shaded window looking down On the roofs of the silent, sleeping town. In the moonlight seeming doubly fair. Meanwhile, impatient to know his fate, Down in the lane by the garden gate, Back and forth went Paul Revere. He tried his tandem with all his weight, And tested the wheels both front and rear. He whirled the pedals swiftly round. He saw that the frame was strong and sound, But mostly he watched with anxious eye That chamber window, dim and high, Half hidden behind the swaying trees, That softly rocked with every breeze. And lo! as he looks on the window’s height A glimmer, and then a gleam of light! He clasps his saddle; again he turns, And lingers and gazes, till full on his sight A second lamp in the window burns. A hurry of wheels in a village street. Two shapes in the moonlight, a flash in the dark. And beneath, from the pebbles, in pass- ing, a spark Struck out, by a wheel flying fearless and fleet; 125 That was all! and yet through the gloom and the light. The fate of two beings was riding that night. And the spark struck out by that wheel, in its flight Kindled them both into flame with its heat. You know the rest. Of course you have read How the father, finding his daughter fled, Mounted a horse and offered them chase, But found he couldn’t keep their pace; How they all made up and shared the joys, And now the fathers all tell their boys. In the hour of darkness and peril and need. The story a lover loves to hear. Of the midnight flight of that tandem steed. And Mr. and Mrs. Paul Revere. Nixtm Waterman, in L. A. W. BvUetin. MODIFIED. I was awfully blue; I was told On the wheel relief I’d find. I rode a week and still I was blue With black somewhat largely com- bined. Detroit JowmaX, “Imperious Caesar, dead and turned to clay, Might stop a hole to keep the wind away;” But when it comes to patching up a tire, ‘Tis rubber, not dead Romans, we desire. Chicago Record, 126 SCORCMNG. Sing a song of scorching, Hip pocket full of rye; Four and twenty little nips Taken on the sly. When the run was over His head began to spin. Wasn’t this a pretty state To go a-wheeling in? The host was in the roadway, Inflating a new tire; The hostess wabbling in the ditch. Bestrewn with dust and mire; The daughter struggling with her chain. All tangled with her clothes; Our scorcher runs to aid her And tumbles on his nose. New York World, ^TIS STILL A JOY. My sweetheart cannot ride her wheel, Now that the wintry days have come, But still she doesn’t seem to feel So very glum. For, on the mantel-piece it stands, Where she can view it all the while, A^jd ’tis bedecked with silken bands In pleasing style. And everyone that sees it thus Declares that she has made a hit. And raves around and makes a fuss. And praises it. Hence, though my love cannot ride out. Because the weather is so bad, Her fame is spreading round about, And she is glad. Cleveland Leader. 127 BLOWS. The griant powder in the blast Is blowlnsr up the boulders; The maiden with pneumatic sleeves Is blowing up her shoulders. The baker to the kitchen maid Is blowing up his crumpets; The milkman in the lower hall Is blowing up the trumpets. The gentle zephyr from the South Is blowing the narcissus; The cook who thinks she knows it all Is blowing up the ”missus.” The father, down upon his knees. Is blowing up the fires; The daughter in her bloomer suit, Is blowing up her tires. Tonhen StcUetman. NEW NURSERY RHYMES. Sing a song of cycle, with pockets on the thigh, Four-and-twenty hat pins; another girl went by. When the bike was broken, she couldn’t even sing. Wasn’t she a dainty miss to set before the King? The King was in his counting house try- ing to make money. The Queen was in the ambulance feeling very funny. The maid was in the garden, brushing mud from those. When the bobby came and whispered, “Ain’t she barked her noser’ Fun. 1*28 DIFFERENT* Mary boyght a little lamp; She used it on her wheel; It never seemed quite big enougrh All dangers to reveal. But now ’tis winter, and that lamp, Tho’ still not very bright. Sheds rays within her parlor, and She saers it is Just right. Chicago Record. A NEW VIEW OF SUNDAY CYCLING. They’re complaining from the pulpit, with an energy undue, That the craze for Sunday cycling now is emptying the pew; But we think these hasty parsons are mistaken when they throw On the wheel so much in fashion all the burden of their woe. As it seems to us, the cycle, on which many perch. Does not lure away each Sunday those – who ride it from the church; It is from the club it takes them, from the pot-house, from the street. As it bears them off rejoicing to the country fresh and sweet. White-faced offlce-boys it carries to the woods, where thrushes sing, To the fields, where whirring coveys from the wavering wheat-stalks spring; Care-worn city clerks it hurries off to nature’s fairest scenes — Flower-decked meads and trelllsed hop- grounds; babbling brooks and vil- lage greens. 129 Round-backed artlMuifl it bean, too, from the small and stuffy room. To the lanes where trailingr roses all the summer air perfumes; And it makes them grow forgetful of the stifllnsr. man-made town. As they climb the breexy roadway o’er the swelling, Gtod-made down. Can a change like this be vicious? Can the exercise do harm. That thus adds to lives so weary, once a week a healthful charm? No, it seems by far more likely that the cyclists thus may learn From the fairest sights of nature to that nature’s Ood to turn. Moved to thought and to reflection by the wonders that they see. They may long in grateful homage once again to bend the knee; And the parsons may discover that their pews are filled anew. Not because their fiocks don’t cycle, but, forsooth, because they do! The American Wheelman. CYCLOLOTRY. I often drift, on fancy’s wondrous stream. Far out into the vagaries of a dream. And wonder what the ancients had been like Had they the bike. Think of big Hector tied up by the heel Tight to the step of strong Achilles’ wheel; And Dad Aeneas scorching out of Troy Behind his boy. See Aristotle with a humped-up back “Perlpateting” on a four-lap track; And Socrates a-pedaling for his life From his sharp wife. If Alexander had a wheel, would he Have cut so wide a swath in history? Or spent his youth like modern royal sons In century runs? Just fancy Julius Caesar (if you will) A coasting down the Capitolean hill; Or Cleopatra touring by the Nile In royal style. Can your imagination dwell on Cain Cycling the world in spite of wind and rain? Or on our mother Eve (I do not jest) In bloomers dressed? It seems to me that if the chosen race Had had some speedy man to make the pace, ‘Twould not have taken forty years to reach The promised peach. The world went different then; but what’s the odds? They didn’t have the bike; they had the gods. No gods rule us (the change I rather like) ; / We’ve got the bike. Bearings. LITTLE POLLY MICHAEL. Lri^ttle Polly Michael Rode upon her cycle Bxposing more, alas, than Just her toes; Her mother came and caught her And whipped her little daughter For wheeling in such shamefully short clothes. Washington Times. 131 THE SONG OF THE WHEKU Whirl and click of sprocket and chain. Shimmer and flash of steel, Throb of pedal and saddle-creak, This is the Song of the Wheel. Think you, you of the shoulder-shrug, you of the scornful glance. That I am only the season’s fad slipped into vogue by chance. Toy of the moment’s childish whim, ’til next year’s fancy? Nay, I am the balanced, whirling, swift, still Spirit of To-day. Tyrant am I of the woodland road; Mer- cury of the street. Slipping soundless athwart the rush, fragile, elusive, fleet; Whispering over the asphalt, ghost-like I glide through the Park, Flickering my flrefly light along the driveways in the dark. They know me in the far deflles where Khundish bandits wait. You may trace the curve of my serpent’s track through Bagdad’s storied gate. Across their stretches gray, the Persians watch me gleam, To the endless sleep their cities keep I come, a disturbing dream. Where’er the sun my cobweb strands (spun wire of spoke) hath kissed The annals praised of feudal days hath faded like a mist. Flight of machine where once was seen knight errant brave and gay? Ah, yes. I am the whirling, swift, still Spirit of To-day. 132 Plea4Bure hath drunk the draught of haste, and learned to laugh to scorn All the sauntering ease and free of a leisured age outworn. Tense she speeds! Imperative her clang- ing summons ring! I am the spirit of To-day — and I am Pleasure’s King. Whirl and click of sprocket and chain, Shimmer and flash of steel. Throb of pedal and saddle-creak, This is the Song of the Wheel. George Lynde Richardson^ in Outing. THE SPINNING WHEEL. 1796. Beside her wheel my ladye sits, and spins the livelong day. The drifted wool her fairy touch like magic melts away. Certes, she is passing fair, fairer than verse may tell. She winds the skein about my hands, and round my heart a spell. The sunbeams dancing in her eyes dare me a kiss to steal From gentle Mistress Dorothy beside her spinning wheel. 1896. Scorching down the Boulevard, Chewing gum and pedaling hard. Ting ling! Almost knock me flat. Dizzy tie, Fedora hat. Scarlet bloomers: *Tis a picture Makes my very senses reel. What was that? I ask. Oh, merely Dot astride her spinning wheel. Ernest Neal Lyon^ in New York Sun. 133 BALLAD ON BOSTON TOWN. MisB Jane Penelope Breweter, of linear running back To ancient Plsrmouth’s founders, with never a flaw nor crack. Supposedly daft on Browning, EmercKm and Thoreau, Very select, correctly cold and all that stuff, you know; Never appearingr in public without a chaperon, LfOaded with B. C. wisdom, but to mod- ern larks unknown. Suddenly caused the Boston mind to totter and quake and reel By riding out through the Back Bay Fens mounted upon a wheel! Gay society snickered, cultured society wept, Still on her awful downward course Miss J. P. Brewster kept; Her long skirts soon gave way to short: bloomers succeeded those. What did they say on Beacon street? That’s too much to suppose. Pleadings and solid argument, ridicule. cuts and scoff Fell to her lot. but still she went reeling “centuries” off; Soon she was winning prizes; her inti- mates, full of pain. Finally let her pedal; said she had “wheel on the brain.” But after a while what happened? Jenny shook off her shell. Got acquainted with real folks, grew to be plump and well; Found out something about the world that’s whirling along to-day, Read an occasional novel, didn’t despise the play; ]34 When the season was over the girls of her ancient set Found she’d married the very man they all had hoped to get; Instead of wheel on the brain, the facts in the case reveal That when Miss Brewster rode there was a massive brain on the wheel! Puck. A GENERAL LAMENT. There was grief in the song that the big beetle sang, And sorrow in the croak of the frog, In tones dull and sombre the evening chimes rang And still was the nimble pollywog. The katydid “didn’t” in a tremolo flat, And the cricket piped his notes out of tune; With tear-stained cheeks the ladybug sat. And the mud hen wailed with the loon. The whip-poor-will wept as she perched on a tree, And the owl hooted sadly in the night, The mosquitoes passed a maid, who was plump as she could be. While the fireflies forgot to strike a light. Then I asked all the creatures if the truth they would tell. And the source of their sorrow would reveal, When a little wood sprite rushed by pell mell. Saying, ” They’re mad ’cause they can’t ride a wheel.” New York Evening Telegram. 135 THE SCORCHERS BACK. The chimpanzee lately deceased, Much lamented in New York’s srreat Zoo, Established one fashion at least, Much followed in Kalamazoo. His vertebral column which bent, In tropical Jungles to climb, It’R shape curvilinear lent To model the bicycle spine. And now in articulate curves Tt’s skeleton sits on its haunch, In the posture the scorcher observes When his starter is giving the launch. Whate’er the original plan, Confusion results from the shape, ‘Twixt the ape that is almost a man. And the man who looks so like an ape. Bike Loride, in New York Sun. SO SVEET. He watched her riding down the street, So fleet! Propelled by dainty, twinkling feet, Petite; Her cycling suit was trim and neat. Complete; A prettier girl you’d seldom meet — Or never! She looked at him — the shyest glance. Askance; Took in his quiet elegance, Perchance. Then how his laughing eyes did dance! For chance Upset her, ending her romance — Forever! Somerville Journal. 131) THE PRETTY MAID. “Where are you g”Oingr, my pretty maid?” “I’m out for a ride, kind sir,” she said. “May I go, too, my pretty maid?” “Why, sure, if you like, kind sir,” she said. By verdant fields, through sylvan shade, I rode by the side of this pretty maid; We passed some cows, she seemed afraid, So timid was this pretty maid. In the cool retreat of a mossy glade We loitered, I and this pretty maid. Till the soft twilight around us played — Likewise my arm around the maid. “Pray let us be going,” said the pretty maid. As she noted the hour, nor could I dis- suade. “I really must go — there, now, don’t up- braid. For my husband may want his wheel/’ she said. Washington Times. MAIDEN’S WAY. Gazes with a timid glance. On the cyclist’s swift advance. Wonders — shall she take the chance? Trips half way across the street. Stops! turns back in time to meet Haging, baffled cyclist fleet. Cyclist in the gutter tossed. Maiden learning to her cost: “She who hesitates is lost” H. E.,inL. A. W. Bulletin. V.\7 filY WHEEL ANDL My wheel and I have joUy times, Ab o’er smooth roads we fly; Mile upon mile without a care. Between the earth and sky. And should one meet a bloomer girl Spinning along, ah, well If we should flirt a litle bit. Who is there that would tell? New York Htraid. JUST MUD* Mud, mud, mud, As far as the eye can see. And I’m glad that my tongue can’t utter The thoughts that arise in me. O well for the city chap As he rides on the level street. And well for the country lad That he’s bom with large web-feet. And the half-filled carts go on, With a little jag of a load, But O just to feel the joy of a wheel And a nice, hard, level road. Mud, mud, mud. As far as the eye can see, But the joy I miss on a road like this Can never come back to me. L. A. W. BulUtiti. LADY CLARE. It was the time when lilies blow. And clouds are highest up in air; Lord Ronald had plenty of rocks, and 00 He bought a bike for Lady Clare. 188 I trow she didn’t gaze with scorn Upon the present he had brought; “I’ll mount it early to-morrow mom, Out behind the house,” she thought. “It’s the nicest looking bike on earth, And it is stout as well as fair; Wonder how much the thing is worth?” Thus ruminated Lady Clare. In there came old Alice, the nurse, Said: “Who was this that went from thee?” ” ‘Twas only Ronny,” said Lady Clare, “And see what he has bought for me.” “Oh, what a beaut!” said Alice, the nurse, “And a high-grade wheel, too, I de- clare! Now, you’ll be right in line, I guess, As sure as your name is Lady Clare.” ***** She clad herself in a russet gown. She looked not much like Lady Clare! She got on once, but she soon was down With burdocks mixed up in her hair. The high-grade bike Lord Ronald had bought Leapt like a Texas steer. It skinned the shins of Lady Clare And stood her on her ear. Down stept Lord Ronald from his bike; “Oh, Lady Clare, you shame your worth. Your waist is all ripped up the back. While you are rooting in the earth.” “I’m going to ride this thing,” she said, As she felt around for her back hair; “I’m going to ride the critter, or My name will not be Lady Clare.” 1.S9 He laughed a laugh of merry scorn, And turned and kissed her where she stood ; He pinned her dress where it was torn. And from her nose wiped off the blood. “If you must ride to-day, get on, And I,” he said, “will hold you there Till you can run the thing alone. So you shall still be Lady Clare.” Cleveland Letzder. GALILEO AND THE BICYCXE* Galileo from his retreat Of silence came on noiseless feet One day to Earth and turned his eyes, With keenest glances of surprise. To countless thousands of mankind Speeding along as speeds the wind; To maids and matrons, sires and sons. And immaturest little ones. All whirling on revolving things That bore them swift as swiftest wings: Through every busy thoroughfare. In rural highways, coursing where The prairies reached o’er endless space. Where rivers ran, where’er the face Of earth revealed on open way, A wheeling, whirling fleet array Of human forms in ceaseless flight Was shown unto his wondering sight; And standing there a’s one aghast. His hands before his eyes he passed. Then, proudly lifting up his head. In self-applauding tone he said: “I knew, by Jupiter! it moved. As my researches grandly proved: But, by my great-grandfather’s hat! I never though ‘twould move like that.” Boston Courier. no THE FATE OF CHARLOTTE S. The wheels go round without a sound, The maidens hold high revel; In sinful mood, insanely gay. True spinsters spinning down the way From goodness to the devil. They laugh, they sing, and ting-a-ling Their bells go all the morning; And lanterns bright bestar the night, The caterpillars warning! With lifted hands Miss Charlotte stands, Good-Lording and O-mying, Her rheumatism forgotten quite. Her fat with anger frying; She blocks the path that leads to wrath, Jack Satan’s power defying. The wheels go round without a sound, The stars are red and blue and green. What’s this that lies upon the ground? Miss Charlotte Smith’s a smithereen! San Francisco Examiner. THEY DREW THE LINE. There were two maiden aunts Who longed for just one chance To ride a bike Along the pike; But they drew the line at — bloomers! Springfield Monitor. QUADRIENNALLY* Adown the avenue he’d scorch, With wild and reckless air; But now he bears a campaign torch And scorches off his hair. Cleveland Plain Dealer. 141 THE INTROSPECTIVE SCORCHER* I am a scorcher! Please observe The curve That appertains unto my spine! With head ducked low, I go O’er man and beast, and woe Unto the thing That fails to scamper when I tin^-a-ling! Let people Jaw And go to law To try to check my gralt, If that’s their game! I hate To kill folks, but I’ll do it Just the same, I guess, Unless They clear the track for me; Because, you see, I am the scorcher, full of zeal, And Just the thing I look like on the wheel! Cleveland Leader, THE BICYCLE CRAZE. Of all the vile inventions, misbegotten by mistake, The thing they call the bicycle does sure- ly take the cake; ‘E’e ugly an’ ‘e’s vulgar, and ‘e’s danger- ous to ride. An’ ‘e fills the man as rides ‘im with a sort of beastly pride. Oh, the bike! oh, the bike! oh. the scarin’, tearln’ bike! *E’s Just a ‘oly terror goln* scorchin* down the road, 142 with a grinnln’ idiot clingrln’ to the ‘an- dies monkey-like, ‘Is shoulders ‘unched above ‘im like a ‘Uimpty sort o’ toad. You thinks you’ll learn to ride ‘im coz it don’t look ‘ard at all, But you’ve got to get acquainted Just with hevery kind of fall; You’ve got to learn ‘ow gravel feels a stickin’ in your jaw. And what it is to ‘ave your knees and knuckles always raw. An’ when you’ve learnt to ride a bit, and thinks afield to roam, The awkward thing collapses ’bout twen- ty miles from *ome. With ‘is silly bellers busted, or maybe something wuss. An’ you ‘as to wheel ‘im ‘ome again, an’ then your wounds you nuss. They say it’s lovely hexercise; you’ll think so pretty soon — Same as a railway haccident, a hearth- quake or typhoon — When you turn a slippery corner, an’ ‘e slides and falls down dead, And you finds your takin’ hexercise a standin’ on your ‘ead. The ‘orse ‘e groes by rein an’ bit, the cos- ter’s moke’s a moke. The ‘ansom cab’s a daisy, and the rick- shaw’s jus-t a joke; But the bike’s a ‘orrid mixture, as on ‘is face ‘e shows, Of a treadmill an’ a ‘brellar frame and a length of garden ‘ose! 14.3 ‘E takes the bit between ‘is teeth a’goin’ down a ‘ill, And you loses both your treadles an’ you comes a hawful spill. An’ you breaks your knees and nose, and wi* luck you break your neck, And that there hawful bicycle’s a ‘ide- ous, tangrled wreck. Oh, the bike! on, the bike! oh, the lanky, cranky bike! ‘E’s twenty ways of fallln’ down, an* can’t stand up alone. If there’s a stone within a mile you can be sure ‘e’ll strike; ‘E tumbles down and chucks you, and it’s odds you breaks a bone. Japan Mail. EMANCIPATED. She’s emancipated, we must confess; Her rights she has won — ’tis so; No more she depends on a bathing dress The curves of her form to show. It doesn’t much matter what dress she wears, Her beauties she must reveal; Her upper charms at the dance she bares And the lower ones on her wheel. Boston Courier. MARY* Mary bought a little wheel; It wabbled so at random She gave it up and coaxed a man To haul her on a tandem. Chicago Record, 144 ” J950/’ [t stands a thing of joy still Behind the barn door where The spiders spin their webs at will And build a lair. They say grandpapa rode with grace Upon the strange old thing, Propelling it from place to place With rhythmic swing. Tib said young people courted then Upon their whirling wheels; What silly chaps those sons of men To love’s appeals. So strange a fancy people had In days of long ago; They were demented, clearly mad, To travel so. Ah! now we fly about in space Above the earth below; Wings beat the wheels for ease and grace It’s plain to show. Troy Dailjf Pt’e«tt. HAPPY CHAPPIE. A broad, broad smile, dear Willie wears. Of his face it’s a regular twister — His bicycle suit is two sizes too small To be worn by his athletic sister. Indianapolis Journal. HERGOAU He used to live in peace, but now His house is filled with roomers. His wife is earning money for A bike and pair of bloomers. Buffalo Express. AN UNEQUAL RACE. The sky is beaxnin* brighter, For love has took in school; But Jinny rides a bicycle, An’ me — ^I ride a mule! I follow in a gallop. But love my heart’ 11 fool. For Jinny rides her bicycle An’ leaves me on my mule! Atlanta Constitution. MERMAIDS WOE. Only a little mermaid. Who perched on a cold, damp rock. And wept as if her system Had incurred a dreadful shock. “Alas! Ah, woe!” she blubbered. “I’m the victim of a cheat, I cannot ride a bicycle, For I haven’t any feet.” CJiieago Record. A GIRL. A girl can ride a wheel all day, And still be sweetly cheery, But she cannot sew a button on, Because it makes her weary. Scottish Nights. TCX) BIG A LOAD. Good Santa Claus may well grrow wild. And go out on a strike. If every woman, man and child Insist they want a bike. Judge. lir, HOW SHE HAS CHANGED. It seems a few short days ago The girl for whom you’d died Would walk a block and then exclaim: “Oh, dear, my shoe’s untied!” But times have changed and so have girls, Of this all are aware; She simply now reminds you that “My tires need more air.” Yonkers Statesman. SO VERY LIKE. In garb of rare similitude Their biking course they swift pursued, Defiant alike of laws and “coppers;” As by their gate they later sped, Their offspring to a stranger said, “Look, mister! There go my two pop- pers.” Boston Courier. PASS TO SOCIETY. Bike, and the world bikes with you; Walk, and you walk alone. And you can’t get into society If you have no wheel of your own. Cleveland Leader. MADE IT CHRONIC He was bent on having a wheel, thoy said, And to purchase one was straightway led, And now, as his daily feats have shown. He’s bent till the same has chronic grown. Boston Courier. 147 GOT A PUNCTURE. Alas and alack! for the grirl who wheels Down the road in a mood most gray; At dusky eve into town she steals Perched aloft on a load of hay. CMcago Record. 9 RUMORS. She’s not out biking: spruce and gray To-day, and there are rumors That from the clothesline yesterday The groat ate Mamie’s bloomers. Boston Courier. SCORCHER. The “scorcher” went tearing: down the road, Setting a pace to cause regret; He met a farmer’s heavy load, Died, and may be scorching yet. CMcago Ditpatch. MARY. Mary had a little lamb, But both have long been dead; If Mary were alive to-day, She’d want a wheel instead. SomerviUe Journal. THE BRAKE QUESTION. “Break, break, break. At the foot of thy crags, O sea!” But whether cycle should have one or not, It is hard for us all to agree. L. A. W. BuaetiA. 148 HARD HIT, He wheeled out Into the country, To breathe the sweet, pure air; ‘Twas a rugg-ed landscape, and even tie Was much struck by the scenery there. Detroit Tribune. A QUERY. Twinkle, twinkle, little star, Have you bikes up where you are? And are prices in the sky, As upon the earth, so high? Cleveland Leader. FLORINDA^ DEAL. Florinda has the cycle craze, and like- wise so have I; But, gracious! neither purse displays the cash wherewith to buy. Yet rare Florinda’s up to things; she said— dear, gifted girl — “Let’s blow in our engagement rings and get some wheels and whirl.” Chicago Record. OUTWITTED.” I thought her mine — my rival watched Us ride away, then he Went straight and bought a tandem, and Of course that settled me! Cleveland Plain Dealer. PETER^S WIFE. Peter, Peter, pumpkin eater, Had a wife and couldn’t keep her. He hid her bloomers, bike and bell, And then he kept her very well. Chicago Record. 149 -U MARY^ LITTLE BKE. Mary had a little wheel Which she rode to and fro, And, when she put her bloomers on, That wheel was sure to go. Truth. Mary had a little wheel In which she fondly trusted, But one sad day it ran away, And Mary’s wheel was busted. I. A. W. BulUHn. WRECKED. A grlrl, a wheel, A shock, a squeal. A header, a thump, A girl in a lump, A bloomer all torn, A maiden forlorn. SpriJigfidd Monitor. 9 THE SCORCHER. The scorcher scorched — The scorcher scorched with all his might, His head o’er the handle bars was bent ; The brewery wagon hove in sight- Go ask the winds where the scorcher went. Cleveland Press. NO HARM DONE. There was a man who thought he knew, About a wheel a thing or two; He mounted one and rode away. So this is all I have to say. J. A. Koons, inL.A. W. BuUefin.

The above book of bicycle songs has been transposed via text-recognition technology, which is not 100% accurate. I’ve spent over an hour correcting it already, but there are still many textual errors.


Max Miller history – http://londonbobby.com

Dutch Corps – http://www.leger1939-1940.nl/Fotos/wielrijders_muziekkorps_1.htm

Music on Wheels – http://www.mentalfloss.com/blogs/archives/36416

Frank Zappa on Steve Allen Show – http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vip0H-I8pTg

Thai Musical Trike, Chinese New Year parade, 2002 – http://www.Pigs-on-Mopeds.com