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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.


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