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RHYMES 
 
 M 
 
 ROAD AND RIVER 
 
 By CHRIS. WHEELER 
 
 Lays of Lancaster Pike; 
 
 Songs of the Schuylkill River; 
 
 Bent Oars and Broken Spokes; 
 Cycling Bab Ballads. 
 
 NOV 16 \: 
 
 i"'' WASHING^ 
 
 PHILADELPHIA: 
 
 E. STANLEY HART & CO. 
 
 18S5. 
 
7S ^^^"^ 
 
 Copyright, 1885, by Chris. Wheeler. 
 
EDGAR C. HOWELL, Esq., 
 
 IN REMEMBRANCE 
 OF 
 
 Many Pleasant Associations, 
 
 and as a slight token of sincere esteem, 
 
 THIS BOOK 
 
 Is Inscribed 
 
 BY 
 
 THE AUTHOR. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 THE author makes no pretensions and therefore 
 tenders no apologies for what the reader may find in 
 this book, even though he is aware of the fact, — unknown 
 perhaps to those of his friends who pressed him to pub- 
 hsh this volume, — that he might, and perhaps will, do 
 better if ever he falls into the publishing pit again. With 
 respect to this book, he washes his hands completely of, 
 and makes over to several sanguine and enthusiastic 
 friends, all responsibility attached to the act of issuing 
 from the press what he feels is after all but a gathering 
 together of random rhymes ; many of them too hastily 
 and thoughtlessly written, all of them perhaps too care- 
 lessly collected, and placed in the hands of a publisher, 
 to receive from him more attention, whether merited or 
 unmerited, than very probably they obtained from the 
 
 author of their existence. 
 
 y 
 
vi Preface. 
 
 So Chris tenders no apologies for his " Rhymes." 
 No, not even to the ultra cultured intellects of Boston, 
 though in the neighborhood of the " Hub " are centred 
 some of his earliest recollections, recollections of a time 
 when though oars bent and flashed across Massachusetts 
 waters, no noiseless rubber-hoofed steed carried a rider 
 over the roads of Cape Ann, or bore him to a seat on the 
 rocks of Cohasset. 
 
 So much for the general public, in case it should — 
 unfortunately for itself — be brought into any sort of rela- 
 tionship with this book. As for my numerous and kind 
 friends in Philadelphia, amongst whom for four years I have 
 had generously tendered to me and have enjoyed those social 
 relationships and sympathies which sometimes we value too 
 lightly ; I will allow that in this special case, it is but a poor 
 return for me to add to my many faculties for testing their 
 long-suffering good nature, the most questionable one of 
 calling into existence and unloading upon them the " bore " 
 
 of a book. 
 
 Chris Wheeler. 
 
 West Philadelphia, September 20th, 1885. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 LAYS OF LANCASTER PIKE. 
 
 To My Bicycle, 13 
 
 America's Song of the " Wheel," .... 18 
 
 A Morning Ride, 21 
 
 Night Lights, 23 
 
 The Breeze of Bryn Mawr, . . . . . 25 
 
 A Cycling Yarn Told on Lancaster Pike, . . 28 
 
 A Song of Lancaster Pike, • • • • • 35 
 
 On the Road, 38 
 
 Bryn Mawr Town, ....... 40 
 
 The Pike Pump, 43 
 
 A Ride at the Close of Winter, . ... 45 
 
 Devon, Fair Devon, ... . . 46 
 
 Tightened Spokes, ....... 48 
 
 To J , 49 
 
 vii, 
 
vaii Contents. 
 
 SONGS OF THE SCHUYLKILL RIVER. 
 
 Beautiful Schuylkill, ...... 53 
 
 Cycling by the Schuylkill, ..... 56 
 
 An Autumn Ride up the Wissahickon, ... 58 
 
 On the Schuylkill, ...... 61 
 
 Oar Echoes, ........ 63 
 
 By the River, ....... 66 
 
 Song of the Pennsylvania Bicycle Club, ... 68 
 
 The Last Song, ....... 71 
 
 BENT OARS AND BROKEN SPOKES. 
 
 Bent Oars and Broken Spokes, .... 75 
 
 A Shadow Hope, ...... 77 
 
 Roll On, My Cycle ! 78 
 
 Souvenir, ........ 79 
 
 A River Dream, . . . . . . . 81 
 
 Friendship's Influence, ..... 82 
 
 " Good-bye, Rob," ^Z 
 
 I Cannot Forget, ...... 86 
 
 Memories, . ... . . . • • 87 
 
 Air Wheels, 89 
 
Contents. ix 
 
 Once Again, . . . . , . . . 91 
 
 To Annie , ...... 92 
 
 Tom Moore's Cottage, ...... 95 
 
 Niagara, ........ 97 
 
 Two Songsters of two Lands, ..... 99 
 
 Song of Italian Sailor on board the Guido, 1S79, • ^°° 
 Memory Arches, . . . . . . .102 
 
 Sing ]\Ie a Song, ....... 104 
 
 To Helen , ....... 106 
 
 Query, ......... 108 
 
 Written on the Back of a Birthday Card, . . . 109 
 
 Trifles, ......... no 
 
 There's a Steed whose Hoofs Require no Care, . . in 
 
 The Broken Axle, 112 
 
 My Friend's Baby, 113 
 
 To , . 114 
 
 Westward, Ho! . 116 
 
 An Afternoon Ride, . . . . . . 117 
 
 Adieu, . . . . '. . . . .118 
 
 Friendship, ........ 119 
 
 Recreation, . . . . . . . .120 
 
 Give Me All , 122 
 
 By the Stream, 123 
 
 Your Autograph, Please, ...... 124 
 
 Oar Bend the Last, 125 
 
X Contents. 
 
 CYCLING BAB BALLADS. 
 
 A Lay of a Race, . . . . . . .129 
 
 Fortune's Like the Bicycle, _ . . . . . 130 
 
 Lancaster Pike, . . . . . . . .131 
 
 A First J8.ide, . . . . . . . 133 
 
 The Lay of a Recreant, 136 
 
 "Le Misanthrope," ...... 138 
 
 The Britisher's Lament, . . . . . .141 
 
 The Britisher's Lament, No. 2, . . . . 145 
 
 Devon Hill, ........ 14S 
 
 T. A. S. (oh's) Lament? ...... 149 
 
 Short Pants and Long Lungs, . . . . .151 
 
 The Devil Take the Bicycle, . . . . 153 
 
 Rhyme the Last, ....... 154 
 
LAYS OF LANCASTER PIKE. 
 
TO MY BICYCLE. 
 
 MY bicycle ! my brave old steed ! 
 I would not part with thee 
 Were all the pleasures life could give 
 
 Flung in its lap for me ; 
 I would not give the glorious sense 
 
 Of joy bound in thy wheel, 
 For all the vaunted pleasures life 
 
 Could, or could not reveal. 
 For where can I so surely find, 
 
 Outside of human kind, 
 A friend like thee, who never fails 
 To ease this tired mind ? 
 
 13 
 
14 Lays of Lancaster Fikc. 
 
 I only sought in thee for what 
 
 My other pastimes yield, 
 But now, I would not give thee up 
 
 For all in pleasure's field. 
 
 I love the motion of thy rush, 
 
 The cool air coursing free 
 Away behind, where vanished scenes 
 
 Have left their smile with me, 
 The pulse's throb, the panting breath, 
 
 The lazy, lingering stroll, 
 The leaves of nature's book, which oft 
 
 The old dame will unroll ; 
 All speak to me in varied tones. 
 
 And tell the same old tale, 
 They sing the same sweet song that breaks 
 
 From wood, and height, and vale — 
 The same old tale that lives and laughs 
 
 Within the streamlet's flow. 
 The same old song that's softly sung 
 
 'Mid trees where breezes blow. 
 
Lays of Lancaster Pike. 1 5 
 
 They nourish still my dearest wish, 
 
 My wild, untamed desire, 
 To revel in a life of which 
 
 The heart could never tire ; 
 To ramble where, unfettered with 
 
 The tramm'ling laws of men, 
 I find no mark to bid me shun 
 
 Rude height or rocky glen. 
 Yes, thou canst bear me swift to where 
 
 In semblance nature still, 
 Holds sway o'er scenes that once but knew 
 
 And owned no other will 
 Save that, which bade the river run 
 
 As it had run before. 
 Save that which threw no steel track down 
 
 Along its level shore. 
 
 My brave old " wheel !" my true old " wheel !" 
 
 Thou'lt bear me oft again, 
 'Mid scenes and sounds that own no rule 
 
 Save that of nature's reign ; 
 
1 6 Lays of Lancaster Pike. 
 
 The cares that will beset our life, 
 
 Born of the strife that brings 
 To hearts and hands the semblance but 
 
 Of fortune's gilded rings, 
 Are scattered by thy kindly aid, 
 
 Are flung where far behind, 
 They vex no more the heart that yields 
 
 Its dearest rights to mind. 
 The showy tribute wrung from life 
 
 By eager, grasping hands. 
 Is after all but gold foil wrapped 
 
 Round griping iron bands ; 
 The shining gleam, the tempting blaze, 
 
 Of glory lingering there, 
 Creeps in at last and crushes out 
 
 The life that lives by care. 
 
 Then bear me on, my gallant wheel ; 
 
 No pulse of life may dwell 
 Within thy limbs of burnished steel, 
 
 Which serve thy master well ; 
 
Lays of Lancaster Pike. 17 
 
 But still it seems to me that oft 
 
 An answering thrill from thee, 
 Gives back some free-born fancy, drawn 
 
 By nature's touch from me. 
 Then bear me on, we leave afar 
 
 The wheel of human strife 
 And, listening, hear a voice that whispers, 
 
 Cycler, love thy life. 
 
AMERICA'S SONG OF THE ''WHEEL." 
 
 CYCLING'S summons is sounding far 
 O'er each Commonwealth proud that owns a star, 
 In the dark blue ground of the banner grand, 
 That flings its folds o'er our fatherland; 
 
 And where'er outflung, unfurled, unrolled, 
 That summons leaps from each falling fold. 
 
 From the hardy land of the wild north breeze. 
 Where the pine knots blaze and the great lakes freeze. 
 To the land where cousins in Southern clime 
 Have strung a new spoke in the " wheel " of time, 
 
 Flies the welcome message which makes us feel, 
 
 What a union link is the steed of steel. 
 
 iS 
 
Lays of Lancaster Pike. 19 
 
 And the new spoke fitted in Southern land 
 Is as firm and true as the " New South 's " hand, 
 Which has butted that spoke with a Union star, 
 That was tempered well in the lap of war. 
 What a mighty bond of peace will steal 
 O'er the land we love, on the brave old "wheel." 
 
 From the tide that washes the " Empire State," 
 To the wave that rolls through the " Golden Gate," 
 From Alaska's wilds to the " crescent moon," 
 From the Northland's cape to the South's lagoon. 
 Flies the wheelman's summons, that near and far. 
 Makes a union land 'neath a union star. 
 
 And that union star o'er the cluster grand. 
 
 That in union bound forms the fatherland 
 
 Is progress, one hand on the dome above, 
 
 The other linked on the earth with love ; 
 
 Oh ! the wheel will link in a long bright chain 
 The stars which divided misfht shine in vain. 
 
20 Lays of Lancaster Pike. 
 
 Let this song be sung to the Northern breeze. 
 Let its whispers fall among orange trees, 
 Breathing ever soft o'er the cyclers' way 
 At the breaking forth or the close of day, 
 
 Linking heart to heart, joining hand with hand. 
 Let the " wheel " roll on through the fatherland. 
 
s 
 
 A MORNING RIDE. 
 
 PEED thee well, my bicycle, speed thee well, I say, 
 Swiftly thou shalt bear me o'er the traveled way, 
 Swiftly by the rambling streams, 
 Where we watch the yellow gleams 
 Of the wavelets leaping bright 
 From dark arches into light. 
 Seeking, like the ready mind. 
 In the darkness light to find. 
 
 Speed thee well, my bicycle, bear me on, I say, 
 Let thy wheel revolving chase thought of care away, 
 
 Every rustling breeze that blows. 
 
 Every breaking beam that glows. 
 
22 Lays of Lancaster Pike. 
 
 Every form that beauty takes 
 
 From Dame Nature when she wakes, 
 
 Fairy ferns and forest flowers, 
 
 All ! my " wheel," all — all are ours. 
 
 Then away, my bicycle, while I urge thee on, 
 Thoughts of other days flash by that have long since 
 gone; 
 Fondly memory backward trends, 
 And I see and hear old friends, 
 See them in the shades that play 
 Through the leafy curtained way. 
 Hear them in the breeze that makes 
 Monotones through bushy brakes. 
 
NIGHT LIGHTS. 
 
 FAR on the winding road, 
 Wavering slow, 
 What is that flickering, 
 
 Fast flitting glow? 
 Stars softly showing. 
 Lights shyly glowing, 
 Through trees where, blowing, 
 Winds whisper low. 
 
 Hark ! on the soft breathing. 
 
 Half broken breeze, 
 Tired with blowing through 
 
 Leaf-laden trees. 
 
 23 
 
24 Lays of Lancaster Pike. 
 
 O'er the woods sleeping, 
 Music comes creeping, 
 Voices are keeping 
 Time to the breeze. 
 
 Out from the sumac shade 
 
 GHde flashing wheels, 
 Twining through airy spokes 
 
 Melody steals ; 
 Cyclers are singing, 
 Wild notes ringing, 
 Deep voices flinging up 
 Music of wheels. 
 
THE BREEZE OF BRYN MAWR. 
 
 ONCE as night was closing o'er Bryn Mawr 
 And far in the western sky, 
 Farther than where the summits 
 
 Of the wild Alleghenies lie, 
 And beyond where the mighty Ohio 
 
 Gives the " Father of Waters " her hand, 
 The shades of evening had settled 
 O'er a silent and sleeping land. 
 
 Eastward a breeze had been traveling — 
 
 Traveling the live-long day — 
 
 Till it found itself blowing through Bryn Mawr, 
 
 And there it resolved to stay ; 
 
 25 
 
26 Lays of Lancaster Pike. 
 
 For it said, " Though from far I have journeyed, 
 
 O'er city and village and home, 
 I find not a place like Bryn Mawr, 
 Outstretched 'neath the great blue dome." 
 
 This it whispered the leafy guardians 
 
 Who watch over Bryn Mawr town 
 From the heights of the Chester Valley, 
 
 Whose summits their dark shades crown ; 
 And they bowed their proud heads with pleasure 
 
 When this tribute the West Wind bore » 
 To the charms of the sleeping homesteads 
 
 They were holding their night watch o'er. 
 
 And all that was said in whispers 
 
 To the ears of the drowsy trees. 
 Who stayed for a few short moments 
 
 The way of that Western breeze, 
 Has been told and retold so often, 
 
 That the fame of this hamlet sweet 
 Has crept where the wild East breezes 
 
 Wait that Western breeze to g-reet. 
 
' Lays of Lancaster Pike. 27 
 
 But at Bryn Mawr this breeze has tarried 
 
 Since then, which was long ago — 
 So long that it seems a wonder 
 
 That it long has not ceased to blow. 
 But it dwells near the Chester Valley, 
 
 That it may, when the sun goes down, 
 Blow a song to the hill of Devon. 
 
 And a whisper through Bryn Mawr town. 
 
A CYCLING YARN TOLD ON LANCASTER PIKE: 
 
 COME, Charlie, wake up, a song for your "wheel" 
 As it lies on the grass, while near it 
 We dozen bold cyclers are lounging at ease. 
 
 And waiting and longing to hear it — 
 Come, Charlie, wake up, though we haven't a cup 
 
 To drink to your health while you sing it. 
 "All right," said old Charlie, "I'll siner; but here, Vic, 
 Bring your patent new gong out and ring it. 
 
 ***** 
 
 There once was a jolly old "wheel," boys. 
 And that jolly old " wheel " was mine — 
 
 What's the matter with you and your gong, Vic ? 
 You're the deuce of a fellow for time ; 
 28 
 
Lays of Lancaster Pike. 29 
 
 There now, that will do, keep it up so — 
 
 What I'm going to tell you about 
 Is how I and that precious old " wheel " there 
 
 Came precariously near falling out. 
 
 Now here's just the way the thing happened : 
 
 It was only one summer ago 
 That I got the — well, the marrying fev^er, 
 
 Which none here have experienced, I know. 
 And where do you think that I got it? 
 
 Why, down at the seashore, of course. 
 Where with ducking the girls I'd grown nervous, 
 
 And with whisp'ring at hops I'd grown hoarse. 
 
 It was just at the close of the season, 
 
 And friends were all dropping away, 
 That I struck up an awful flirtation 
 
 With sweet little Miss Jennie Ray. 
 I tell you I went it in earnest. 
 
 And I thought I was gone, boys, for sure, 
 In which case I'd have looked like Miss Jennie's 
 
 Blue frock, only fifty times bluer. 
 
30 Lays of Lancaster Pike. 
 
 Her father was rich as old Croesus, 
 
 That mighty fine hero of old, 
 Whose dearest of earth's many pleasures 
 
 Lay in roping in millions of gold; 
 So old Ray had his millions of dollars. 
 
 In stocks, bonds, and railroads, and cash, 
 And the man who could wed with Miss Jennie 
 
 Would presumably not be termed rash. 
 
 For Jennie was petted and pretty — 
 
 Not proud, though she'd reason to be. 
 That is, if money's considered, 
 
 For there she was top-o'-the-tree — 
 That's one thing I must allow of her. 
 
 She certainly never was vain. 
 Though each dude of "Atlantic" stared at her, 
 
 As he chewed up the end of his cane. 
 
 Well, she nodded to Jones on the porch once. 
 Who lay half smothered up in his rug, 
 
 Then she turned to admire just one other 
 Brand new importation — a pug. 
 
Lays of Lancaster Pike. 31 
 
 Then, turning to me, she said sweetly, 
 
 In tones pitched too highly, I fear, 
 " I think that the wildest creations 
 
 From England now come over here." 
 
 Then said I to myself, " Mr. Charlie, 
 
 Miss Jennie is wondrously fair, 
 And of sense she possesses a trifle, 
 
 Though her father's a fat millionaire." 
 And that's how it all came about, boys. 
 
 And we started in earnest at once, 
 And bicycler Charlie cut out, boys, 
 
 Atlantic's sweet dudes for the nonce. 
 
 And we walked and we talked and we flirted, 
 
 Most outrageously, openly bold. 
 And that wretched dude Jones, with most studied 
 
 Contempt, was left out in the cold ; 
 And things were all sliding on smoothly, 
 
 Hearts getting quite hot, I could feel, 
 When the whole blessed business was busted 
 
 By that deucedly unlucky " wheel." 
 
32 Lays of Lancaster Pike. 
 
 You see, here is how the thing happened : 
 
 I was speeding along one dark night, 
 After leaving the radiance behind me 
 
 Of Jennie's sweet eyes smihng bright; 
 And it must have been from the contrast 
 
 Of changing their Hght for the dark. 
 That I came in colhsion with some one 
 
 And ripped up our mutual bark — 
 
 Ripped up our bark, you may say so. 
 
 In a double sense, too, you can bet. 
 For the chap I ran down seemed determined 
 
 To swear himself into a sweat ; 
 And I, you may certainly reckon, 
 
 Felt as riled as himself at the mess, 
 And since he seemed disposed to talk Latin, 
 
 I, too, felt like talking, I guess. 
 
 So a mutual roar of expletives 
 
 Was wafted aloft on the air, 
 And I was a " d — d public nuisance," 
 
 And he was a "crusty old bear;" 
 
Lays of Lancaster Pike. 33 
 
 And I'd be " consigned to old Pluto," 
 
 And he'd " go to heaven the wrong way," 
 
 When, " great Scott !" a gas lamp shone on him, 
 And revealed to me old Johnny Ray. 
 
 You just bet I caved, and I mounted, 
 
 And " by George !" you'd have sworn that " old Nick " 
 Was traveling hard on my hind wheel 
 
 With his toe gathered up for a kick ; 
 For I left the old gent in the roadway, 
 
 Swearing hotly, " You d — d Charlie C , 
 
 Come back ;" but I sloped, for I knew, boys, 
 
 'Twas all up between Jennie and me. 
 
 So it was, for next morning quite early 
 
 There came such a sweet little note. 
 Which told me that I and Miss Jennie 
 
 Could never form crew of one boat ; 
 And I tell you I felt for a short while 
 
 As I never once more want to feel. 
 And I vowed on the spur of the moment 
 
 That I'd wreck that confounded old " wheel."' 
 
34 Lays of Lancaster Pike. 
 
 But I didn't, and there she stands yonder, 
 
 And, boys, my advice to you now 
 Is, before you join hands with the daughter, 
 
 With the dad have a scriptural row ; 
 And then, if the girl's worth the having, 
 
 She'll make the old gentleman keel, 
 And if not, why, your best plan of action 
 
 Is right about face, and then wheel. 
 
A SONG OF LANCASTER PIKE. 
 
 O'ER Lancaster's level, 
 O'er Lancaster's grade, 
 Up hill and down hill. 
 
 By coppice and glade, 
 By woods whence the light 
 
 Of the recreant day, 
 Long hours ago 
 
 Melted slowly away : 
 
 Cycle, O cycle ! 
 
 Come bear me along, 
 To where in sweet Bryn Mawr 
 
 A bird sings a song. 
 
 35 
 
^6 Lays of Lancaster Pike. 
 
 Let Lancaster's level 
 
 Fall fading behind, 
 Let Lancaster's grade 
 
 Call no fears to the mind ; 
 By house and by hamlet, 
 
 By village and town, 
 With a rush we go up, 
 
 But again to rush down. 
 
 So, cycle, my cycle. 
 Come bear me along, 
 
 Ere night shadows sadden 
 A fair maiden's song. 
 
 Old Lancaster's level 
 Flies fast to the rear. 
 
 Old Lancaster's grade 
 Gives us never a care. 
 
 While each Lancaster maiden, 
 As past her we fly, 
 
Lays of Lancaster Pike. 37 
 
 Throws a glance of surprise 
 At the form flitting by : 
 
 But cycle, O cycle ! 
 
 Let the maidens alone, 
 For we have in Bryn Mawr 
 
 A sweet maid of our own. 
 
ON THE ROAD. 
 
 AWAY we go on our wheels, boys, 
 As free as the roving breeze, 
 And over our pathway steals, boys, 
 
 The music of wind-swept trees ; 
 And round by the woods and over the hill 
 
 Where the ground so gently swells, 
 From a thousand throats in echoing notes 
 The songster melody wells. 
 
 Along we speed o'er the road, boys — 
 
 The road that we love so well ; 
 Those oaks know the whir of our wheels, boys, 
 
 And they welcome the cycler's bell ; 
 
 38 
 
Lays of Lancaster Pike. 39 
 
 And down in the hollow the streamlet flows 
 
 In rollicking humor along, 
 While flinging its wavelets' cadence up 
 
 To challenge the cyclers' song. 
 
 Above us we feel in the air, boys, 
 
 A spirit that's kin with ours — 
 A spirit that gives to our life, boys, 
 
 The brightest of earth's best flowers ; 
 For the health and the strength that are beauty's own, 
 
 That are stamped with nature's seal, 
 Are securely bound and circled round 
 
 In the spokes of the flying " wheel." 
 
BRYN MAWR TOWN. 
 
 ONE night I went a-riding, 
 A-riding, a-riding, 
 Dimly shone the stars where the clouds 
 Were drifting high ; 
 And deep among the trees 
 The trembling summer breeze 
 Swung the branches into music songs 
 Which sang good-bye, 
 
 By-and-by I came a-riding, 
 
 A-riding, a-riding, 
 
 Riding down the roadway right into 
 
 Bryn Mawr town, 
 
 40 
 
Ljxys of Lancaster Pike. 41 
 
 Where welcome gleams of light 
 Shone from many a window bright; 
 And stooping in the saddle 'neath 
 The branches bending down, 
 I seemed to hear an echo sonef 
 Which sang " good-night." 
 
 Shortly after I went riding, 
 
 A-riding, a-riding, 
 
 While a handkerchief flew wavinsr from 
 
 A window-casement high ; 
 
 But the breeze was fast increasing, 
 
 And now, blowing without ceasing, 
 
 It swept away a gentle song 
 
 Which sang "good-bye." 
 
 Then I went a-riding, 
 A-riding, a-riding, 
 Riding right away from 
 Pleasant Bryn Mawr town; 
 
42 Lays of Lancaster Pike. 
 
 Looking back I saw her light 
 Streaming from the casement height, 
 And bending where the branches 
 Brushed my helmet, drooping down, 
 The v/histling wind swept back my song, 
 " Good-night, good-night." 
 
THE PIKE PUMP. 
 
 HERE once again, our journey completed, 
 I and my wheel feel like taking a rest, 
 Thirty miles ridden and three toll-men cheated. 
 
 That's a record I'll chalk down as one of my best. 
 " Health to my wheel " I pledge, and I drink it. 
 
 While she stands on her head by yon hickory stump. 
 Health to a " wheel !" Odd toast you may think it. 
 Odder still, as the nectar's derived from a pump. 
 
 Odd though it be, I pledge and I mean it, 
 
 And non-cycling readers may laugh as they please. 
 Perhaps they'd laugh more at my "wheel" had they 
 seen it 
 As it stood on its head 'neath those hickory trees — 
 
 43 
 
44 Lays of Lancaster Pike. 
 
 Stood on its head, for certain it did, sir, 
 After taking an awfully buck-boardy jump, 
 
 While I, with the thwack of an auction's last bid, sir, 
 Descending, brought mine on the head of the pump. 
 
 Thirty miles ridden and three toll-men cheated, 
 
 A machine on its head with its wheels in the air, 
 A pair of new breeches which must be reseated — 
 
 This last was a thought which impelled me to swear, 
 A log in the roadway, a dent in the gravel. 
 
 And a head boasting one superfluous bump, 
 A hole in a cap, and, without doubt or cavil, 
 
 A decided imprint on the head of a pump. 
 
A RIDE AT THE CLOSE OF WINTER. 
 
 THUS, thus do I leap to the saddle and fly, 
 While the woods wave their arms where the 
 spring grasses lie ; 
 E'er enrobing once more in the harmony guise, 
 In which nature, enveloping, smothers their sighs. 
 Granting to them instead the soft whispers that fling 
 Breathings soft as the velvet born leaves of the spring. 
 
 Yes ! thus once again will my " wheel " bear me on. 
 Each pedal-push bids some dull trouble begone ; 
 Each turn of the wheel to each draw on the bar 
 Throws a thrill of delight that will leave lying far 
 In the distance behind, as in life that's gone by, 
 What remembering we fain would, forgetting, let die. 
 
 45 
 
DEVON, FAIR DEVON. 
 
 COME, cycle ! we'll wander together away 
 As free as the airy pressure 
 Of the unseen hand that boldly plays 
 
 Through the woodland's leafy treasure. 
 We'll roam where, far in the western sky, 
 
 There are signs that the veil of even 
 Has, creeping far from the city's side, 
 
 Dropped down its dark shade o'er Devon. 
 O Devon I fair Devon ! 
 Shadows may close over Devon, 
 But there's light in an eye 
 That's as deep as the sky 
 When it smiles its brightest o'er Devon 
 46 
 
Lays of Lancaster Pike. 47 
 
 Come, cycle ! old Lancaster's arm is outstretched 
 
 To the West, and its trees are bending 
 Their branches, to shield us from tribute which 
 
 The lowlands unasked are sending. 
 So forward, on ! by each hill and dale, 
 
 For at present our earthly heaven 
 Lies far away, where the brave old pike 
 Takes a turn round the hill of Devon. 
 O Devon ! fair Devon ! 
 Dull grows the sky over Devon, 
 But there's light in an eye 
 That is black as the sky 
 On the darkest of nights at Devon. 
 
TIGHTENED SPOKES. 
 
 IN my "wheel" there's a spoke that never loosens, 
 In the handle a bar that never bends, 
 And so tried and true are these faithful servants 
 That they hold in my heart the place of friends. 
 
 There are spokes in the wheel of time that tighten, 
 That yield not their hold as the years roll by ; 
 
 They are mostly thoughts that are linked with the love 
 Of the friends who now are no longer nigh. 
 
 48 
 
TO J- 
 
 , well I know that nothing 
 
 I have written here you'll miss ; 
 
 Therefore, e'er you lift another 
 
 Leaf, just waste a thought on Chris. 
 
 49 
 
SONGS OF THE SCHUYLKILL RIVER. 
 
BEAUTIFUL SCHUYLKILL.* 
 
 BEAUTIFUL Schuylkill, 
 Pride of our Park, 
 River, thou'rt noble still 
 
 As when the bark 
 Of the red Indian, 
 
 Warrior brave, 
 Swept its wild master 
 Over thy wave. 
 
 Beautiful Schuylkill, 
 Said he, with pride. 
 
 As he swept over 
 
 Thy tree-shaded tide : 
 
 In Fairmount Park." 
 
 53 
 
54 Songs of the Schuylkill River. 
 
 " O'er this, my country — 
 My fatherland — 
 Dares the invader 
 
 Stretch his false hand?" 
 
 Beautiful Schuylkill, 
 
 Beautiful still — 
 Rocky glen, foaming stream, 
 
 Forest, and hill ; 
 Rivulet, streamlet, 
 
 Steal to thy side. 
 As to her lover's arms 
 
 Nestles the bride. 
 
 Beautiful Schuylkill, 
 O'er thee we throw 
 
 Shadows that nature 
 Never lets grow ; 
 
 Yet thy fair features 
 Of forest and hill, 
 
SoTigs of the Schuylkill River. 55 
 
 All — picture river, 
 Are beautiful still. 
 
 Beautiful Schuylkill, 
 
 Time steals from thee 
 Less than it ever 
 
 Can wrestle from me ; 
 Winter and summer, 
 
 Autumn and spring, 
 O'er thy broad bosom 
 
 Fresh beauties flingf. 
 
 Beautiful Schuylkill, 
 
 Time will soon steal 
 One who has loved thee. 
 
 One who could feel 
 Nature's own hand 
 
 Stretched forth ere she died, 
 Where man's creations 
 
 Marred thy bright tide. 
 
CYCLING BY THE SCHUYLKILL. 
 
 CYCLING in the even' 
 When the sun sinks low, 
 Cycling through the twilight 
 While the shadows grow, 
 Cycling on in starlight 
 Underneath the glow, 
 That falling finds a home 
 In Schuylkill's silent flow. 
 
 Tell me not that tribute 
 From the heart, can find. 
 
 Naught to fi-ame in words 
 But what, was lefi: behind, 
 
 56 
 
Songs of the ScJmylkill River. $7 
 
 By dwellers with and lovers of 
 
 Old Nature kind, 
 Whose every virtue by-gone hearts 
 
 And pens, have lined. 
 
 No, tell me not that nothing new 
 
 Fair Nature gives. 
 Say not that nothing new 
 
 In thought, or fancy lives — 
 Lives not to greet the soul 
 
 That has, for beauty eyes, 
 Lives not to furnish yet 
 
 The fire, that never dies. 
 
AN AUTUMN RIDE UP THE WISSAHICKON. 
 
 SEASON of the sun-browned leaf 
 Merging into golden hues, 
 Where the oak and maple meet 
 And their leafy harvest fuse; 
 Shadow-guarded, up the glen. 
 
 See ! fair Wissahickon's flow. 
 Bears away the tribute which 
 Oak and maple fling below. 
 
 Season of a great farewell. 
 
 Spoken low in accents soft. 
 Whispered by each leaf that falls 
 From the curtain arched aloft; 
 58 
 
Songs of the ScJwylkill River. 59 
 
 Stretching o'er us as we ride, 
 
 Oak and maple arches bright, 
 Sun-browned, merging into gold, 
 
 From our path close out the light. 
 
 Timid toned and very soft, 
 
 Lightly tuned and very low. 
 Soft-breathed songs from sunless streams. 
 
 Trickling where the fern leaves grow, 
 Greet our ear, and whisper where, 
 
 Hidden by the frondine shade. 
 Wandering waters seek a home 
 
 Through the path their songs have made. 
 
 Gushing, gasping o'er the stones. 
 
 Gurgling round the green-lipped rocks, 
 Ruder song from rougher streams, 
 
 Surly toned, the quiet mocks — 
 Surly toned and angry waved. 
 
 White lipped, black browed, bubble crowned, 
 Wilder streams with wayward will 
 
 Fling their harsher cadence round. 
 
6o Songs of the Schuylkill River. 
 
 Through the shadow up the glen, 
 
 Where the sunlight's slanting ray 
 Rarely seeks to share the scene, 
 
 With the rambling breezes play, 
 Ride we when the evening hour 
 
 Falls o'er Wissahickon's stream, 
 Losing Schuylkill far behind 
 
 In a sun-browned golden dream. 
 
ON THE SCHUYLKILL. 
 
 SCHUYLKILL River, 
 From thy quiver 
 Launch the trembling shafts of light ; 
 Let thy waves fling, flashing upward, 
 Kisses caught from moonbeams bright ; 
 Noble river. 
 Gentle river, 
 How I love thy face at night. 
 
 As thus rowing, 
 
 O'er thee flowing, 
 
 Swift I love to stem thy stream, 
 
 How the oars ever onward 
 
 6i 
 
62 Songs of the Schuylkill River. 
 
 Seem to throw, in fancy's dream. 
 
 Fairy flashes. 
 
 Where their splashes, 
 
 Mingle with the moon's soft beam. 
 
 Gently flowing. 
 
 Nobly glowing. 
 
 While yon streak of silver grows, 
 
 Narrowed down to where the curvinsf 
 
 Banks their shadows interpose ; 
 
 Lazy breaking, 
 
 Waves half waking. 
 
 Backward far our track inclose. 
 
 Sleeping never. 
 
 Dreaming ever, 
 
 Yet not waking fully free. 
 
 Thy old waters have a charming 
 
 And half mystic claim to be 
 
 Ever giving, 
 
 And then living 
 
 In the thoughts they give to me. 
 
OAR ECHOES. 
 
 TOGETHER, lads, steady, 
 The swing of the rowlock 
 Has wakened the ripples 
 That sleeping lay still ; 
 And the dip of our oars 
 Has disturbed the clear image 
 Flung o'er the waters 
 From Strawberry Hill. 
 
 As the spray falls behind us 
 Fly the fetters that bind us 
 To the fast fading city 
 We've left far behind ; 
 
 63 
 
64 Songs of the Schuylkill River. 
 
 There ! our bold strokes have broken 
 The last lingering token, 
 That might bind us to where 
 Life's at best but unkind. 
 
 Together, lads, steady. 
 
 Let the unity motto 
 
 That pilots our fatherland's 
 
 Fortunes be ours ; 
 
 For there's far-reaching wisdom 
 
 In the words which are spoken 
 
 When the buds of experience 
 
 Break forth into flowers. 
 
 Through the spray flitting by us, 
 Through the dusk creeping nigh us, 
 Through the cloud which yon moon 
 Has but now silver-lined ; 
 We can read the old story 
 Which tells how life's glory 
 Lies in harmonized union 
 Of body and mind. 
 
Songs of the Schuylkill River. 65 
 
 Then together, lads, steady, 
 The breath of the summer 
 Is dying o'er woods 
 That are losing their sheen ; 
 As we bend to our work 
 Let us value the moments, 
 Which fortune flings kindly 
 Life's labors between. 
 
 For if life is worth living, 
 
 'Tis when summer is giving 
 
 The fruits of a spring 
 
 That can never return ; 
 
 And the thistledown straying, 
 
 Through the wind o'er us playing, 
 
 Leaves behind it a lesson 
 
 The oldest may learn. 
 
BY THE RIVER. 
 
 THE soft wind is pressing 
 The breast of the stream, 
 Where the waves are caressing 
 
 The moon's fickle beam; 
 As slowly I'm riding 
 
 Where willow shades creep, 
 Keeping watch over waters 
 That wake not from sleep. 
 
 As slowly I wander 
 
 On swift noiseless wheel, 
 
 Of these haunts I grow fonder 
 Through friendship's broad seal ; 
 66 
 
Songs of the Schuylkill River. 6j 
 
 And footsteps and faces 
 
 Of comrades and friends, 
 Fancy oftentimes traces 
 
 Where the willow tree bends. 
 
 The breeze has ceased blowine. 
 
 From whence did it come ? 
 But the stream is still flowing 
 
 Away to its home ; 
 And I hear the soft whispers 
 
 Of friends vanished long, 
 In the ripples that singing 
 
 Get lost in their song. 
 
SONG OF THE PENNSYLVANIA BICYCLE CLUB. 
 
 GATHER, Pennsylvania, 
 Hark the bugle call, 
 Hear the dropping echoes 
 
 Round us faintly fall ; 
 Mounting, speed we onward 
 While the shadows dark. 
 Close in curtained silence 
 Over Fairmount Park. 
 
 Fairmount's shadows deepen 
 
 As we speed along. 
 
 Hark from off the river 
 
 Breaks the boatman's song, 
 68 
 
Songs of the Schuylkill River. 69 
 
 And the mule bells music 
 
 Down the river track, 
 Draws from many a " Challis"* 
 
 Answering tinkles back. 
 
 Starry world above us 
 
 Looking down below, 
 See you not our starlight 
 
 Glancing back your glow ; 
 Through the spokes reflecting 
 
 Red and green so bright. 
 See our stars are winking 
 
 Back your watchful light. 
 
 Beauty in the night time 
 
 As there is in day. 
 Softer shines the starlight 
 
 Than the orb of day; 
 Softer winds seem blowing, 
 
 Softer breezes creep, 
 
 *" Challis Stop BeH." 
 
JO Songs of the Schuylkill River. 
 
 When they find old nature 
 Nodding off to sleep. 
 
 Softly, Pennsylvania, 
 
 Softly ride and slow, 
 Noiseless as the mid-stream 
 
 Of yon waters flow ; 
 Now move fast, and faster, 
 
 Yet our swift steeds make, 
 Sounds less than the ripples 
 
 On those banks that break. 
 
 Faster, Pennsylvania, 
 
 Let the bugles ring, 
 While the echoing hillsides 
 
 Back the wild notes fling. 
 River song and ripple 
 
 Greet us as we glide. 
 Near where stars are dipping 
 
 Deep in Schuylkill's tide. 
 
THE LAST SONG. 
 
 , though old Schuylkill's praises, 
 
 Roughly chanted thus by Chris 
 You'll forget, yet still the singer's 
 Mem'ry you will not dismiss. 
 
 71 
 
BENT OARS AND BROKEN SPOKES. 
 
 BENT AND BROKEN ON BOTH SIDES QF THE ATLANTIC. 
 
BENT OARS AND BROKEN SPOKES. 
 
 BENT oars and broken spokes, 
 How often have I seen them, 
 How often found a lesson of 
 
 Our life bent in between them ; 
 The rose between two thorns will grow, 
 
 Will even learn to love them, 
 The lesson learned from broken hopes 
 Will raise us oft above them. 
 
 Bent oars and broken spokes, 
 We lay them down with sorrow, 
 
 And seek in something fresh to find 
 What we can beg or borrow ; 
 
 75 
 
^5 Bent Oars and Broken Spokes, 
 
 We beg the health we cannot buy 
 From every breeze that, blowing, 
 
 Renerves the friction Time's old hand 
 Is never tired of slowing. 
 
 Bent oars and broken spokes, 
 
 Who wants of them to borrow — 
 Who looks for that which lies but where 
 
 To-morrow meets to-morrow. 
 We seek to find in memory's arms 
 
 Friends once our best and dearest. 
 While greeting still the haze that time 
 
 Throws round what once was nearest. 
 
 Bent oars and broken spokes. 
 
 Of thought and word and action, 
 Each twisted thread that twines through life 
 
 Must lose its last attraction. 
 The oar that's bent, the twisted spoke, 
 
 The nature warped or broken. 
 Each flung along life's shore lies there, 
 
 Of life a rusted token. 
 
A SHADOW HOPE. 
 
 IN the clasp of the hand that is cHnglng in silence, 
 In the light of the eye that is lost ere its lash, 
 Like the lightning's cloud curtain creeps over the heaven 
 From whose bosom 'twould seem the bright energies 
 flash ; 
 Dwells assurance which bids me hope on though the 
 hoping, 
 May live like the cloud that is fated to be. 
 Swept afar from its friends by that fate which the future 
 May fling round this heart that feels love but for thee. 
 Yes, that clasp tells me more than the thought flashes 
 leaping, 
 From the eye that reluctant is forced to reveal. 
 
 77 
 
78 Beiit Oars and Broken Spokes. 
 
 The slumbering power of the passion that proves how 
 The heart fails to hold all it ever can feel ; 
 
 I dare not say more, I shall never, can never, 
 Feel love for another that as equal with thee, 
 
 Will live on in this heart which though never forgetting 
 The past, will forgive you what yet has to be. 
 
 ROLL on, my Cycle ! Life is what 
 Its children choose to make it; 
 And pleasure comes to all alike 
 Who reach a hand to take it. 
 
SOUVENIR. 
 
 CYCLE! Cycle! trusty Cycle! 
 How I dearly love thee, 
 Flashing, glancing out as bright 
 
 As any star above me ; 
 Far away, and farther, farther, 
 
 You will bear me fast, 
 Till receding Boston's turmoil 
 Dies away at last. 
 
 Cycle ! Cycle ! my own Cycle ! 
 
 You and I are flying 
 Faster than those city echoes 
 
 Far behind us dying ; 
 
 79 
 
8o Bent Oars and Broken Spokes. 
 
 Then away and over hillside, 
 
 Climbing like a feather, 
 Or, as lightning rushing downward, 
 
 Ride we on together. 
 
 Cycle! Cycle! we have wandered 
 
 Many a mile together, 
 We have tasted summer sunshine, 
 
 Storm and winter weather, 
 And I think as through the starlight 
 
 Slowly now we glide. 
 Through our spokes north winds have whistled. 
 
 Western winds have sighed. 
 Now where Boston's breeze is blowing, 
 
 England's breezes died. 
 
A RIVER DREAM. 
 
 LET the oar rest ere again it revels 
 In the breast of the stream that in darkness hes, 
 A type of the thought that remains unspoken 
 
 In the liquid depths of that sweet girl's eyes ; 
 Her hand droops down where the wavelet's ripple 
 
 Creeps up to caress what I fain would hold, 
 But I never can, for the wave's soft lapping 
 Scarce hides on one finger a band of gold. 
 
 Let the oar strike on the sleeping water, 
 
 Let the eyelash cover the tell-tale light, 
 Which I feel creeps up with unbidden fervor 
 
 From a fire that burns with a flame too bright ; 
 Let the oar bend, let the thought bend with it, 
 
 Let it, bending, break through that passing wave ; 
 Let the thought break through a brief dream that dying, 
 
 Can forever keep what it never gave. 
 
FRIENDSHIP'S INFLUENCE. 
 
 TELL me what tributes of friendship 
 Are cherished the closest by you, 
 Tell me what virtues stand highest 
 
 In thine eyes, be they many or few; 
 For be they as many and royal 
 
 As man ever held or can hold, 
 It shall be my life's labor to win them, 
 They shall be to me silver and gold. 
 
 Knowledge may kneel to the simple, 
 
 May seek him while being unsought, 
 Honor may come to the careless. 
 
 Both may in a measure be bought ; 
 But virtue asks never a master, 
 
 Though vice may seek many a slave. 
 Yet she answers when called, as the bravest 
 
 May often be led by the brave. 
 
 82 
 
"GOOD-BYE, ROB." 
 
 A LAY OF A LONDON HOSPITAL. 
 
 1MISS them, Rob, I miss them, 
 Those fields of sunny green; 
 The two soft, mossy, shelving banks 
 And the running stream between ; 
 I see no more the wind-wave sweep 
 
 Across the fields of grain, 
 And the summer breeze 'mid summer trees, 
 I will never hear again. 
 
 I see them not, I hear them not. 
 Those old time friends of mine, 
 
 Who sang to me, as I to them. 
 Full oft and many a time ; 
 
 83 
 
84 Bent Oars and Broken Spokes. 
 
 For, went I fast, or went I far, 
 On horseback, foot, or "wheel," 
 
 The cadence fresh from feathered throats 
 Would o'er my pathway steal. 
 
 I see no more the springing flowers, 
 
 Which I have marked so oft. 
 Wake to new life, when summer blew 
 
 Her whispering breezes soft ; 
 I hear no more, through whirling spokes, 
 
 Those soft winds swiftly play ; 
 Far as they now are from me, soon 
 
 They'll farther be away. 
 
 Reach me your hand, old friend, and let 
 
 Me say good-bye once more; 
 I'm riding now, it seems to me, 
 
 Along a misty shore ; 
 It's growing narrow, shelving down ; 
 
 Rob ! bring your lantern near, 
 Rob — say, Rob — when you ride this road, 
 
 Keep your flame burning clear. 
 
Bent Oars and Broken Spokes. 85 
 
 It's very dark, yes! and it's cold, 
 
 It's growing cold I feel ; 
 I seem to grasp these handles hard. 
 
 They hold like frozen steel. 
 Ha ! Rob, crtd man, I see the light, 
 
 It's burning bright and clear ; 
 Your hand, old friend, we'll meet again 
 
 On a better road than's here. 
 
I CANNOT FORGET. 
 
 YOU tell me the day and the hour has gone by 
 When that hand and that heart could convey one 
 reply, 
 To the story of love from a heart like to thine, 
 Which you say never was and can never be mine. 
 Yet I say, though I cannot, can never tell wh}', 
 Life lives but for me in a glance from thine eye. 
 
 The heart that has known what the lips fail to tell 
 Can never while mem'ry remains say farewell. 
 The hand that has labored to gain and then lost 
 Its reward, may forget what that labor once cost. 
 
 But remembrance of that which was loved will live 
 
 on 
 In the face of the fate which forbade its being won. 
 86 
 
MEMORIES. 
 
 WHEN my " wheel's" at rest and my oar is sleeping, 
 The measured pause of the pulse will tell, 
 That the minute strokes of thought are turning 
 The windlass handle o'er memory's well. 
 
 And the lever turns with a slow, slow motion, 
 
 And deep through the gloom the chain drops down ; 
 
 And the hand grows tired, and the heart grows weary 
 Ere the kiss of the waters its mission crown. 
 
 Or it turns and turns, as the grasp of the guiding, 
 
 Controlling hand that at first laid hold 
 Is removed, till the rush of the falling vessel 
 
 Is checked by the clasp of the waters cold. 
 
 87 
 
88 Be7it Oars and Broken Spokes. 
 
 And whether I turn with a slow, slow motion, 
 Or whether I let the thought links run 
 
 As they will, I still hear the same old cadence 
 Come stealing up when the goal is won. 
 
 And the refrain sang by the chain links chafing 
 And fretting sore, o'er their roller bed, 
 
 Brings home to my heart a harvest gleaning 
 Of joy and sorrow which I thought lay dead. 
 
AIR WHEELS. 
 
 SOFT and still, valley and hill, 
 Melt in the evening shadow, 
 Away behind the western wind 
 
 Creeps across the meadow; 
 We'll leave it far behind, boys, 
 
 The roads are smooth and fair, 
 O'er hill and hollow the breeze may follow. 
 Follow, follow — air. 
 
 Far away, breaking its way 
 
 Out from its tunnel quiver, 
 
 The railroad steed with arrowy speed 
 
 Sweeps by the quiet river; 
 
 89 
 
90 Bent Oars and Broken Spokes. 
 
 It leaves us far behind, boys, 
 
 We straggle away in the rear, 
 Let it go! let it go! to beat it, you know, 
 
 Our steeds should be made of — air. 
 
 Loud then soft, struggling aloft. 
 
 Over the trees and bushes, 
 The silver notes of the bugle float 
 
 Then fall among river rushes ; 
 That means we're near our goal, boys. 
 
 And friends are waiting there, 
 Press hard on your wheel, how the wind and the 
 steel 
 
 Make a rushing of air through air. 
 
ONCE AGAIN. 
 
 ROUSE thee, my " wheel !" for the winter has wended 
 Its way to the bourne whence no traveler returns ; 
 The first breeze of spring with its last breeze has blended, 
 And sung the " Amen " which each season it learns. 
 
 Rouse thee, my "wheel!" for the sunlight has beckoned, 
 From where the red orb rises over yon hill ; 
 
 Rising earlier still as each morning re-wakens 
 
 Its watch which through winter woke cloudy and still. 
 
 Rouse thee, my " wheel !" for the notes of the song birds 
 Come wafted across from the fresh budding trees. 
 
 And the swell of their cadence makes melody snatches 
 Of music, which even friend Orpheus might please. 
 
 Rouse thee, my " wheel !" for the hues that have mantled 
 The light lying clouds of the morning must find 
 
 In the cheek of thy master tints such as shall rival 
 The flush on their own which the sun god has lined. 
 
 91 
 
TO ANNIE 
 
 SITTING idly in your chair, 
 Sitting idly fretting, 
 Lost to friendship's fond rebuke, 
 Life and love forgetting ; 
 Annie, tell me why so sad 
 When all else on earth is glad. 
 
 Can the path of life be rough 
 
 To so fair a creature, 
 Can the world to thee be aught 
 
 But a gentle teacher? 
 
 Annie, dearest, tell me why 
 
 Sadness should not pass thee by. 
 92 
 
Bent Oars and Broken Spokes. 93 
 
 Living in the lap of ease, 
 
 Friends flung freely round thee, 
 Sorrow's hand should surely be 
 Withered e'er it found thee ; 
 
 Why does sadness dwell with thee 
 Let it choose its friend in me. 
 
 Then the case is as I thought. 
 
 This is then the reason, 
 This is why thy face so fair 
 To thy heart plays treason ; 
 Fairest face will soonest show 
 What sleeps in the heart below. 
 
 Years ago I told thee how 
 
 Brave hearts would be broken, 
 By your words which oft had been 
 Better left unspoken ; 
 
 Hearts were given men to be 
 
 More than playthings meant for thee. 
 
94 Bent Oars and Broken Spokes. 
 
 Yes! I thought so! — now at last! 
 
 — And you really loved him, 
 Idle words in cruel jest 
 
 Now have far removed him ; 
 Annie, dearest, bear in mind 
 Life is love, and love is kind. 
 
TOM MOORE'S COTTAGE. 
 
 AT THE " MEETING OF THE WATERS," IRELAND. 
 
 THROUGH the depth of the valley the sunlight 
 Was streaming in lingering love, 
 As if loath to be leaving a landscape 
 
 That must have dropped down from above; 
 A landscape where lost in day dreaming, 
 
 All nature seems eager to pour 
 In the rightly tuned ear of the stranger 
 The song which she sang to Tom Moore. 
 
 We flung our machines 'neath the shadow 
 
 Of the lord of the forest who hung 
 Its far-reaching form o'er the cottage 
 
 Where the choicest of songs once were sung; 
 
 95 
 
q6 Bent Oars and Byoke?i Spokes. 
 
 And we wondered what stories its branches 
 Could tell if they only knew how, 
 
 — Then we gazed on the quaint old-time cottage 
 And thought on the then and the now. 
 
 And we hung o'er the rock-fettered water, 
 
 And we harked to the sighing of wind 
 Through the giant-like limbs of the elms 
 
 Which the close-clinging ivy entwined ; 
 And we gazed on the waves that had wakened 
 
 The silver-tuned lyre of Tom Moore. 
 Where for us they were meeting and mingling 
 
 As they met for the minstrel of yore. 
 
NIAGARA. 
 
 A MEMORY OF THE L. A. W. MEET, 1885. 
 
 NIAGARA! Niagara! 
 The voice of thy waters 
 Hoarsely confiding their story to me ; 
 Here as I ride round 
 The shore of this island 
 
 Echoes thy voice like a song from the sea, 
 Years, many years, have rolled by since I listened 
 To that cadence recalled by the song sung by thee. 
 
 Oft have I ridden when breakers were rolling 
 High o'er the rocks that with iron band 
 
 Circle the shore of the country where fortune 
 Flung me afar from my own western land. 
 
 97 
 
98 Bc7it Oars and Broken Spokes. 
 
 Niagara ! Niagara ! 
 
 I have dreamed that I heard thee, 
 
 In dreams have I gazed on thy wild rushing leap. 
 In dreams have I wondered if while I was absent 
 
 The thunder riven song of thy waters would sleep. 
 
 And now I have heard thee, 
 Have heard thee and seen thee : 
 
 I have listened in silence as slowly I rode 
 O'er the pilgrimage pathway that winds round this 
 island 
 
 By which through the ages thy eddies have flowed. 
 I have waited and watched for the moment when 
 voicing 
 
 The hope of long years and the dream of a life, 
 I should look on the rush and the roar of thy rapids, 
 
 And list to the song of thy rock fretted strife. 
 
TWO SONGSTERS OF TWO LANDS. 
 
 SINGER sweet of many songs, 
 Whose unwritten sweetness 
 Gives to thee our song-land realm 
 
 In its full completeness ; 
 Pen or pencil fail to tell 
 All thy tuneful graces, 
 Yet, there's one sweet song which yields 
 Not to thine embraces. 
 
 Singer sweet of England's shore. 
 
 Whose delight is flinging 
 Wild notes to the night that lives. 
 
 But to hear thy singing ; 
 Singer sweet, thy song to me 
 
 Soars beyond each measure. 
 Which our mocker flings so free 
 
 At his fickle pleasure. 
 
 99 
 
SONG OF ITALIAN SAILOR ON BOARD THE 
 GUIDO, 1879. 
 
 HO ! for the blire Tyrhennian Sea, 
 Ho ! for my own sweet Italy, 
 Man the crew by the capstan bar. 
 Furl the sail on each trembling spar. 
 Hark to the strain that breaks afar, 
 Music of Italy. 
 
 Sweet as the song that breathes of heaven, 
 Singing of love on the air of even, 
 Light as the foam and soft as the sigh 
 Of the waves on thy shore, O Italy ! 
 
Bent Oars and Broken Spokes. loi 
 
 Then man the crew by the capstan bar, 
 Furl the sail on each trembling spar, 
 Hark to the strain that breaks afar, 
 Music of Italy. 
 
 Music of music the wide world o'er, 
 Greets my ear from my native shore. 
 Stealing aloft to the dreamy sky. 
 That smiles o'er my own sweet Italy. 
 Then man the crew by the capstan bar, 
 Furl the sail on each trembling spar. 
 Wake ! wake ! again, my old guitar 
 To music of Italy, 
 
MEMORY ARCHES. 
 
 I BELIEVE it is true, I have heard it said often 
 That love cannot live when it once has grown cold ; 
 And that life worth the living coins memory arches, 
 Whose keystones are thoughts which can never be 
 told. 
 
 I've heard thee say often, should the world presume 
 coldly 
 To trample on feelings it never could know ; 
 That the knowledge would cheer thee that the truth 
 could be only 
 Revealed to this heart whence like sentiments flow. 
 
Bent Oars and Broken Spokes. 103 
 
 The world will grow older, the world will grow wiser, 
 It will widen, and broaden, and burst its old bands ; 
 It will sweep from their niches and will never restore 
 them, 
 Works which once were the triumphs of hearts and 
 of hands. 
 
 But deep in their dwelling, which far back through the 
 ages, 
 
 And on through the arch of eternity's span; 
 Were ever — will ever be the thoughts which unspoken, 
 
 Yet fashion the life worth the living by man. 
 
SING ME A SONG. 
 
 THE night to the morning 
 Once sullenly said, 
 " Why risest so soon 
 
 From thy orient bed; 
 Cannot I with the wealth 
 
 Of a star lighted sky, 
 Give to earth all the light 
 That owes life to thine eye ?' 
 
 Said the morn to the night, 
 "Farewell, my dark maid. 
 
 The earth has been loved 
 Long enough by thy shade; 
 104 
 
Bent Oars and Broken Spokes. 105 
 
 The love of a night 
 
 May be lost in a day, 
 But the love born of light 
 
 Will live on for alway." 
 
 The tenderest tribute 
 
 The heart can e'er give, 
 If we wish that it blossom, 
 
 And blossoming live, 
 Must bear not alone 
 
 Look of star searching eye, 
 But must stand the bright test 
 
 Of the sun lighted sky. 
 
TO HELEN 
 
 AND she is dead 
 Whom I remember, 
 Kind were her words 
 
 As her heart was tender ; 
 Loving as light 
 
 Which distinction knows not, 
 Sweet as the flower 
 
 That the florist sows not. 
 
 Tell it again, 
 
 For I now may never 
 Look on the face 
 That has left forever 
 1 06 
 
Bent Oars and Broken Spokes. 107 
 
 Haunts that were happy 
 
 When hearts beat lightest, 
 Scenes whose soft beauty 
 
 On her smiled brightest. 
 
 That is enough, 
 
 Braving all danger. 
 In a strange land 
 
 Dying a stranger. 
 Lady, thy lot 
 
 Was a strong man's measure, 
 Earth loses what 
 
 Heaven gains — a treasure. 
 
QUERY. 
 
 HEART of woman, head of man, 
 Read them right who will and can ; 
 Life-long study to the wise, 
 Half of which the cynic flies, 
 Which can win and which can wear ? 
 Gems which each should guard with care. 
 
 Which can win and which can wear? 
 
 Which can from the other tear ? 
 
 All that's cast in beauty's mold, 
 
 All that lives and dies for gold, 
 
 Head hurls with unerring hand, 
 
 Darts, the heart cannot withstand. 
 
 io8 
 
Bent Oars and Broken Spokes. 109 
 
 Heart of woman, head of man, 
 Covers which the widest span ? 
 Captures which the surest prize? 
 Watchest which with subtlest eyes ? 
 Hearts will break, where heads will bend, 
 Live man's hopes, where woman's end. 
 
 WRITTEN ON THE BACK OF A BIRTHDAY 
 
 CARD. 
 
 SEE the wash of the waters that roll o'er our life 
 Sweep over one barrier more, 
 One rock in the rampart now yields mid the strife 
 Cut deep in the next on the shore. 
 
TRIFLES. 
 
 HIS was a faded blossom, 
 Dropping its soft slight head, 
 Close to a pale leaf lying 
 Over some petals dead. 
 
 Hers was a memory blossom. 
 Blooming again once more; 
 
 Born of a wave of music 
 Blowing along the shore. 
 
 His was a fair face smiling 
 
 Over the flower again ; 
 Hers was a deep voice singing 
 
 Words of a magic strain. 
 no 
 
Bent Oars and Broken Spokes. in 
 
 But soon the fading flower 
 
 Lay with the lifeless leaf, 
 And the memory wave of music 
 
 In a sea wave lost its grief. 
 
 THERE'S a steed whose hoofs require no care 
 From the worker 'neath spreading chestnut trees, 
 There's a ship that safer its freight will bear 
 
 Than the famous sailer of silent seas ; 
 There's a bird that soars through the trembling air 
 
 With surer flight than the one that flees 
 From the hawk's fell swoop, and the 'cycle fair 
 Has coaxed from my pen such lines as these. 
 
THE BROKEN AXLE. 
 
 NO light can enlighten 
 The heart that is broken, 
 No hope can re-waken 
 
 The soul that is dead ; 
 And the lips do not speak 
 
 Words that by the looks spoken 
 Reveal all and more 
 Than can ever be said. 
 
 There's light on the hillside, 
 
 And shade in the valley, 
 There's a smile in the river 
 
 As there's death if you choose ; 
 So there's light on the forehead 
 
 Though the heart holds a shadow 
 Which though mourning, it still 
 
 Will reluctlantly lose. 
 
MY FRIENDS BABY. 
 
 BABY Leoni, so curly and coaxing, 
 The light of thine eye and the lisp of thy tongue 
 Have led me to think of the moments when like thee 
 I recked not of blessings born but for the young. 
 But, Leoni, my darling, the time's creeping on 
 When that light will be dimmed, and that lisp will 
 be gone. 
 
 May the heav'n that smiles on thee now at thy waking, 
 
 Cast round thee the guardianship folds of a love, 
 Which a tear from thine eye, or a sigh from thy bosom, 
 Would demand from the eyes we trust watch from 
 above. 
 O Leoni, Leoni, may life for thee find 
 Not a sorrow to leave e'en a shadow behind, 
 
 113 
 
TO . 
 
 TELL me not of them, 
 The days are gone by, 
 When glances fell soft 
 
 From thy dark shaded eye ; 
 That day has departed 
 
 When fate could not find 
 On thy forehead a frown 
 That in earnest was lined. 
 
 Tell me not of them, 
 
 The words which you said, 
 Their music soon melted 
 
 Into echoes now dead ; 
 
 114 
 
Bent Oars and Broken Spokes. 115 
 
 And never, O never 
 
 Can sympathy steal 
 One sigh for the sorrow 
 
 Which you dare not reveal. 
 
 Tell me not of them, 
 
 The songs which you sang, 
 I shall spurn the last tones 
 
 From my heart where they hang 
 Like the last leaves of autumn, 
 
 Which lingering cling, 
 To the branch that forgetting, 
 
 Hopes not for the spring. 
 
WESTWARD, HO! 
 
 THE red sun is sinking and flinging to me 
 Strange shadows from over the storm-beaten sea, 
 As the last gleams of light strike the swaying cross-tree. 
 Whence I gaze on the wild scud flying. 
 
 Behind us the shadows creep after our bark, 
 The daylight of Eastern skies dies into dark, 
 There ! a wave of wind-music comes sweeping, and hark ! 
 It sets our slack cordage sighing. 
 
 The red sun has sunk out of sight, and the spray 
 
 Dashes wild o'er our bows as we drive on our way. 
 
 Striving madly it seems — as we strive — day by day, 
 
 To capture the sunlight dying. 
 ii6 
 
AN AFTERNOON RIDE. 
 
 THE swallows are sweeping o'er meadow and lea, 
 The woodpecker's bill shakes a song from the tree, 
 There's a breeze on the land blowing in from the sea 
 And I and my wheel are flying. 
 
 There's a gleam on the waters a sail flashing white, 
 There's a wash on the rocks and a sparkling of light, 
 And the foam flakes are falling in crystalline flight, 
 Where I and my wheel are lying. 
 
 The foam flakes are flying away behind. 
 The swallows are circling against the wind, 
 There's a glow on the clouds where crimson lined 
 They smother the sunlight dying. 
 
 117 
 
ADIEU. 
 
 I ASK for you the brightest smiles 
 That Hfe and love can give ; 
 I ask from you but one small word 
 
 To bid one memory live ; 
 I cannot tell thee e'er in words 
 
 The mem'ries lying deep 
 Within this heart, which, true till death. 
 Will one dear secret keep. 
 
 Heart beats to heart, and life to life. 
 
 O that the frenzied dream, 
 Which mocked us both, by act or word 
 
 Or thought, I could redeem ; 
 I cannot, perhaps I dare not hope 
 
 That fate will yet retwine, 
 
 Beyond death's stream the one bright strand 
 
 That links this life with thine. 
 iiS 
 
FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 WHEN memory steals upon fancy 
 And claims, like a dear old friend, 
 That the past with its lights and its shadows 
 
 With the future should sometimes blend. 
 Then at moments like these when gazing 
 
 With fancy on some fair scene 
 I'll turn to my old friend memory 
 And think upon what has been. 
 
 And if in those years gone over, 
 
 And through the long years to come, 
 — The past that still speaks so sweetly 
 
 — The future that yet is dumb : 
 At the end, if I find I have touched not 
 
 A few of the silver keys 
 Of friendship, my years have passed over 
 
 As shadows o'er sunlit seas. 
 
 119 
 
RECREATION. 
 
 SOFT whispering word to weary hearts addrest, 
 How sweet thy music can those hearts attest, 
 How blest the prospect, how endeared the hour 
 Which welcomes thee of toil the brightest flower. 
 When the worn heart and weary mind once more 
 Seek in thy flowing stream a bounteous store 
 Of the bright thoughts they cherish, hopes they feel, 
 And which thy presence can alone reveal. 
 Can startle from the daily toil and strife 
 The heart that beats, the soul that gilds the life, 
 Which in the weary breast would drooping lie 
 By the stern will of labor doomed to die. 
 But thy bright cheering presence once again 
 
 Renews the drooping spirit, soothes the pain, 
 1 20 
 
Bent Oars and Broken Spokes. 121 
 
 Wafts us fresh life, sustains the weary soul, 
 
 And from a remnant recreates a whole. 
 
 Brightest of earth's best flowers that come to me. 
 
 At times, when though the world has grown to be 
 
 Less than it ever seemed to be before, 
 
 Yet still not paled enough to close the door 
 
 Of pleasure quite — comes thy soft touch, and gentle way 
 
 Of changing cares to joy, as droops the day 
 
 Into the arms of even', with lightest touch 
 
 Slanting its shadows, while we marvel much 
 
 That the dark curtains though they herald rest 
 
 We welcome not, as nature's great bequest. 
 
 Brightest of toil's few children, formed to be, 
 
 Though last born, laden with best fruit for me. 
 
GIVE ME ALL 
 
 LIFE cannot, 
 Give ever, 
 All that 
 
 The heart will crave; 
 Love cannot, 
 
 Hold ever, 
 Half what 
 
 It owes the grave; 
 E'en though that 
 
 Half slumber. 
 Deep, in 
 
 A memory wave. 
 
 122 
 
BY THE STREAM. 
 
 TELL me truly 
 While we ride, 
 Close this babbling stream beside, 
 If the words you speak to me 
 Are not merely meant to be 
 Little more than bubbles breaking 
 Knowing naught of constancy ; 
 Little more than loose leaves shaking 
 At the straying breeze that free, 
 Whispers low to every tree. 
 
 So! you're silent; then I see 
 
 Just how much you value me, 
 
 123 
 
YOUR AUTOGRAPH, PLEASE. 
 
 FRIENDSHIP'S chain fate often fashions 
 In the lap of chance and flings 
 Lights and shadows of Hfe's passions 
 
 Into all its golden rings. 
 And perhaps this thought here written, 
 
 In some far-off future time 
 Will recall the eve its author 
 Roughly threw it into rhyme. 
 
 124 
 
OAR BEND THE LAST. 
 
 spokes and oars are bending, 
 
 Dust is flying, bubbles hiss, 
 O'er the stream of Hfe that hurries 
 
 You along as well as Chris ; 
 Therefore, dear, I will allow, that 
 In some things I've been remiss. 
 
 125 
 
CYCLING BAB BALLADS. 
 
A LAY OF A RACE. 
 
 A RACE for a ribbon a race for a bow, — 
 Five men are in line, and away they go. 
 Now, while they go rushing and tearing along, 
 With the flashing spokes singing the racers' loved song. 
 Just listen, I'll tell you the reason, old son. 
 Why a blue ribbon beckons those bold riders on. 
 
 You see that brown jersey right there by the tent, 
 'Neath that white ostrich feather so gracefully bent, 
 
 That's Annie, the queen of the day, — 
 
 See! she's shaking the ribbon this way. 
 
 You know her ? you lucky old " son of a gun !" 
 
 She's the jolliest girl, and I for one 
 
 Will swear she's the handsomest — Robinson does — under 
 
 the sun. 
 
 And she's to present the blue ribbon. 
 
 129 
 
1 30 Cycling Bab Ballads. 
 
 The ribbon you see is our annual prize : 
 
 One mile is the distance — how Robinson flies ! 
 And the winner receives the ribbon, you know, 
 From the queen of the day, whom you also must know 
 
 Is the prettiest girl in town ; 
 
 At least on the present occasion she is — 
 
 Ha ! there's Robinson in, and the ribbon is his, 
 
 See ! Annie is bending down ; 
 
 She pins the ribbon — "by George" she is 
 
 A queen, though she wears no crown. 
 
 FORTUNE'S like the bicycle, 
 She sometimes throws her rider. 
 And laughing asks him why on earth 
 
 So trustfully he tried her; 
 Then winking, laughs again to hear 
 Him say, no more he'll ride her. 
 
LANCASTER PIKE. 
 
 (The only good road at the time of writing in the vicinity of Philadelphia.) 
 
 OH ! of every conceivable road for a bike 
 Outstretched anywhere in creation, 
 Not one of the lot can beat Lancaster Pike, 
 
 In fact, or imagination ; 
 Folks not in the secret may wonder at this, 
 
 But I tell you it's true to the letter. 
 When it's good, why it's ever the essence of grand, 
 When it's bad, why there's nothing that's better. 
 
 Oh ! of every conceivable road for a trike 
 That you've known of or read of in story. 
 
 Not one can compare with old Lancaster Pike, 
 It stands quite alone in its glory. 
 
 131 
 
132 Cycling Bab Ballads. 
 
 We have hundreds of miles of most beautiful streets, 
 Paved with rocks, but that's nothing to speak of, 
 
 For the boys are all right, while we give 'em the " Pike,' 
 Which there's only a twenty mile streak of. 
 
 Oh ! I've already said we have hundreds of miles 
 
 Of streets, which the world cannot equal. 
 But the dickens a one can compare with the " Pike," 
 
 As you'll say when I tell you the sequel. 
 For of every conceivable road for a ride. 
 
 In this great and most civilized city. 
 Not one can compare with the Pike, for you see 
 
 There's no other, and so ends this ditty. 
 
A FIRST RIDE. 
 
 TIMOTHY JACKSON'S a friend of mine, 
 A fellow that's hard to beat, 
 He's catcher, and pitcher, and bat of his nine. 
 And he rows like a steamboat that's running on time, 
 And to see him eat cream is a treat. 
 
 But there's one thing that Timothy tried in vain, 
 
 And that was to mount a machine. 
 Or rather he mounted, and then it was plain 
 That Tim had a lightness of head or of brain, 
 And his wife most certainly thought him insane. 
 
 He raised such a deuce of a scene. 
 
 ^33 . 
 
134 Cycling Bab Ballads. 
 
 The first thing he did when he got on the back 
 
 Of his bicycle steed was to holler out "Jack!" 
 
 "Jack, you scoundrel! Jack, you dog, 
 
 You said it was easy as riding a frog, 
 
 Or sitting astride of a rainbow at noon, 
 
 And sliding along to the lap of the moon. 
 
 Hallo! you scamp, I'm running away. 
 
 And there on the hill is a wagon of hay, 
 
 Heaven send help, here's the devil to pay," 
 
 " Twist to the right," shouted Jack from behind. 
 
 And Tim not only twisted but twined. 
 
 In an elegant fashion which called to one's mind 
 
 The mazy curves and wavy flow 
 
 Of the thread Ariadne gave to her beau. 
 
 But there's never a lane without a turn, 
 And there's never a fire but's bound to burn, 
 There's never a buckle without a bend, 
 And there's never a story without an end. 
 And so said Tim when he went for the door 
 Of a cottage neat and trim, 
 
Cycling Bab Ballads. 135 
 
 And laid it flat on the clean-swept floor 
 In the midst of a thunderation roar 
 Of babies and women and children and men, 
 Who reckoned " old Nick " had broken his pen 
 And came for his supper on earth, and then. 
 To have 'em to supper with him. 
 
 Having busted the door the bicycle bent 
 Its backbone under the table, and sent 
 
 The crockery on an excursion. 
 And Tim was sitting on cranberry pie, 
 With a chow-chow pickle patch over his eye, 
 And he reached for a prayer book and then with a 
 sigh, 
 
 Led the family prayer for conversion. 
 
THE LAY OF A RECREANT. 
 
 RIDING on a bicycle may all be very nice, 
 Riding on a tricycle may pay for once or twice. 
 Riding on a steamboat is purely simply sweet, 
 But for quiet calm enjoyment buggy riding can't be beat. 
 
 Riding in a buggy, boys, behind a trotting mare, 
 What means of locomotion with a buggy can com- 
 pare. 
 
 Riding on a bicycle you're not allowed a whip, 
 
 And except you're on a " sociable " you cannot use your 
 
 lip, 
 Then riding on a steamboat there's a crowd on every 
 
 hand. 
 While you needn't have but two within a buggy on the 
 
 land. 
 136 
 
Cycling Bab Ballads. I27 
 
 Riding in a buggy, boys, behind a trotting mare. 
 What means of locomotion with a buggy can com- 
 pare. 
 
 Riding on a bicycle's a sort of Jersey treat, 
 
 A " sociable" is better, for she may be very "sweet;" 
 
 True, a shady nook or corner on a steamboat you may 
 
 find, 
 But there's nothing like a buggy when no bicycler's 
 
 behind. 
 
 Two within a buggy, boys, behind a trotting mare, 
 The devil take the bicycle that can with that com- 
 pare. 
 
"LE MISANTHROPE." 
 
 NOW do I ride a bicycle, 
 Why, yes, you just can bet 
 Your bottom dollar that I do 
 
 And so should you, but yet! 
 Before you choose your mount, my man. 
 
 Just look around and try 
 What bicycle of all on earth 
 Is the worst machine to buy. 
 
 For by the luck that prompts a man 
 
 To buy the crack machine, 
 I swear that he who buys the best 
 
 Is most serenely "green;" 
 138 
 
Cycling Bab Ballads. 139 
 
 Because }ou know, or if you don't, 
 
 You shortly soon will see, 
 That about what's good — or worse — what's best. 
 
 Two cyclers can't agree. 
 
 It mollifies a fellow quite. 
 
 To tell him he's a fool, 
 Or to hint quite sweet and gently 
 
 That he'd better go to school ; 
 But the most consoling news when he 
 
 Has bought a new machine. 
 Is to tell him there's some better mount 
 
 He surely should have seen. 
 
 I've had a " Standard," " Special Club," 
 
 A " Challenge," " Expert," " Star," 
 But every time I bought a mount 
 
 Some cycling sage would mar 
 The satisfaction to be gained, — 
 
 From singling from the rest. 
 The premier mount — by telling me 
 
 I'd bought the second best. 
 
140 Cycling Bab Ballads. 
 
 At present I'm possessor of 
 
 A blooming " Victor Trike," 
 For which I changed my " Expert," 
 
 Which I'd really learned to like ; 
 And now there's Harry White must owe 
 
 Me some eternal grudge. 
 For he says I'm such a jackass, 
 
 In not trading for a Rudge. 
 
 Now by the hopes that once I had 
 
 Of unity of thought, 
 About the best I tell you buy 
 
 The worst that can be bought; 
 For that's the only way to G 
 
 With all your cycling kind, 
 And the universal verdict will 
 
 Agree with yours you'll find. 
 
THE BRITISHER'S LAMENT 
 
 AFTER BUYING AND TRYING TO RIDE AN "AMERICAN 
 STAR" BICYCLE. 
 
 O BROTHERS, listen to the song 
 That I'm about to sing, 
 I tell you that you've never yet 
 
 Experienced such a thing 
 As I'm about to tell you of, 
 
 Though you've ridden fast and far, 
 For you've never straddled yet, my friends, 
 A d Yankee " Star." 
 
 And what is that I hear you say, 
 
 In genuine surprise. 
 
 Well then, my friends, it's nothing more 
 
 Than what it's name implies ; 
 
 141 
 
142 Cycling Bab Ballads. 
 
 Or rather, it's a comet, for. 
 
 Ride you near or ride you far, 
 
 The big wheel follows after 
 In that d Yankee " Star." 
 
 You must know I'm not a champion 
 
 Of swearing, as a rule, 
 And I don't approve of telling tales 
 
 Within, or out of school ; 
 But by every blazing ember 
 
 That burns in heaven afar, 
 If you want to break your neck, just ride 
 
 A d Yankee " Star." 
 
 It is a safety bicycle 
 
 Beyond a living doubt. 
 If safety lies in stomach pumps, 
 
 And turning inside out; 
 And that is why the doctors all, 
 
 In loving friendship, are 
 Beseeching you to mount and ride 
 
 A d Yankee " Star." 
 
Cycling Bab Ballads. 143 
 
 Yes a header's sometimes pleasant 
 
 And often is immense, 
 When your handles gently hold you back 
 
 From bolting through a fence ; 
 But the pleasure's always lacking 
 
 When a twelve-inch handle bar 
 Digs you squarely in the stomach 
 
 On that d Yankee " Star." 
 
 Now that's the fix that I was in 
 
 A few short nights ago, 
 When horn and steel both strove to get 
 
 Where softer victuals go ; 
 Not only that, my feelings too, 
 
 Which sweetly touchy are. 
 Were mortified extremely 
 
 By that d Yankee "Star." 
 
 For Mary saw me coming down 
 
 The street q>\\ that machine, 
 A putting on an awful spurt 
 
 To show I wasn't green ; 
 
144 Cycling Bab Ballads. 
 
 When just as I was passing by- 
 Old Tompkins' toy bazaar, 
 
 I showed her how I managed that 'ere 
 D old Yankee " Star." 
 
 I've traveled on a stage coach, once. 
 
 And soared in a balloon, 
 I'd serious thoughts of taking once 
 
 Verne's railroad to the moon ; 
 I've squirmed upon a camel, 
 
 And an Irish jaunting car, 
 But devil a one of them all can beat 
 
 That d Yankee " Star." 
 
THE BRITISHER'S LAMENT, No. II. 
 
 O BRETHREN of the wheel, I'll sing 
 You yet another song, 
 I do assure you that it will 
 Be neither short nor long ; 
 For my wits are fairly flummuxed 
 
 And scattered near and far, 
 By the anti-human antics 
 
 Of that d Yankee "Star." 
 
 I seriously had thoughts of steering 
 
 Eastward my canoe, 
 For I'll tell you what's a secret now 
 
 To all but me and you ; 
 
 M5 
 
146 Cycling Bab Ballads. 
 
 Since the day I dined on sawdust, 
 Near Tomkins' toy bazaar, 
 
 Why Mary's cut me just as I 
 Cut that d Yankee " Star." 
 
 She cut me dead, I do declare, 
 
 For what I do not know, 
 Except for having made myself 
 
 A Jiandlebar-muubcd show ; > 
 
 Or perhaps because I cut myself. 
 
 For this confounded scar 
 Is a legacy bequeathed me by 
 
 That d Yankee " Star." 
 
 And now there comes to cap my woes 
 
 The story swooping down, 
 That the "Star," at Philadelphia 
 
 Nearly grabbed the racing crown ; 
 After hopping round at Springfield 
 
 In a way that dashed afar 
 My hopes of how grim fate would treat 
 
 That d Yankee "Star." 
 
Cycling Bab Ballads. 147 
 
 Not satisfied with having made 
 
 Me court a " Gibson " keg, 
 For physic kept it's bunted now 
 
 Another fellow's leg ; 
 And I'm told that Hendee '11 have to hire 
 
 A Pullman palace car 
 To pull the man along who rides 
 
 A d Yankee "Star." 
 
 And next the pesky thing will shoot 
 
 Across Atlantic's wave, 
 And influence some noted "cracks" 
 
 To court an early grave; 
 O darn it all, as Shakespeare says. 
 
 It's going quite too far, 
 When legs and records both get smashed 
 
 By that d Yankee " Star." 
 
 I'm going straight to Westminster, 
 The " errand old man"* shall hear 
 
 ♦William Ewart Gladstone. 
 
148 Cycling Bab Ballads. 
 
 What liberal views have done for wheels, 
 You bet he'll quake with fear ; 
 
 And he'll call a cabinet council, 
 And he'll publish near and far, 
 
 How the country's going to bust upon 
 A d Yankee "Star." 
 
 DEVON HILL. 
 
 IF cycling joys are found among 
 Those promised us in heaven, 
 Let's pray we'll find not one that's like 
 That precious hill of Devon ; 
 "A thing of beauty," says the bard. 
 Will be "a joy forever," 
 But though Devon's hill-top may be joy, 
 It's " a thing of beauty " never. 
 
T. A. S. (OH'S) LAMENT? 
 
 A VULGAR BALLAD A LA OCCIDENT. 
 
 I'M a blamed tough, ripping rider on the " bi ;" 
 I'm a racer too you just can "bet your eye;" 
 I'm a terror on the " wheel," 
 A sundowner on a "steal" 
 For to " hook " a brand new bicycle " I'm fly." 
 
 Let me get my claws once on a handsome " bike,' 
 Give me twenty yards or so upon the " pike ;" 
 
 To catch me then you'll fail 
 
 Though you gripped the " old gent's " tail 
 And he rode a Hades' manufactured " trike." 
 
 149 
 
150 Cycling Bab Ballads. 
 
 If you own a " Rucker Tandem " or a " trike " 
 Or an " Expert " or some other kind of " bike," 
 
 Pretty " Facile " or fat " Club," 
 
 " Star " or any other tub, 
 Say your aves when you meet me on the pike. 
 
 Yes you reckon I'm a racer and all think 
 
 That I'm bound to "raise the hair" on dear old "Brink. 
 
 Oh ! you bet he's sick and hazy 
 
 As is every other daisy, 
 For of racers T. A. S.* is just " the pink." 
 
 * A member of the Pennsylvania Bicycle Club. 
 
SHORT " PANTS " AND LONG LUNGS. 
 
 THERE'S a nuisance that we must abate, 
 One that sorely afflicts this our town, 
 What it is I need only to state 
 
 To insure its completest knock down ; 
 And this great crying evil we see 
 
 When our heart is the fullest of joy, 
 For that is the moment of bliss 
 
 To the heart of the selfish small boy. 
 
 He's the nuisance that troubles this town. 
 Though he's all very nice in his way, 
 
 Indeed it's a question to me 
 
 How without him we'd live for a day ; 
 
152 Cycling Bab Ballads. 
 
 But I tell you his worth is not quite 
 Its weight in proverbial old gold, 
 
 When he takes the fell notion to make 
 You, through using expletives, grow old. 
 
 Now mark ! I'm in no way disposed 
 
 To disparage our blooming young sons, 
 Though in matters of pleasure they purely 
 
 Consider their sweet " Number Ones ;" 
 And on this very head I complain 
 
 That the rising young nation to-day 
 Is addicted most strongly to some 
 
 Most precociously smart kinds of play. 
 
 Now, for instance, when I was a boy, 
 
 And from being so fully inclined 
 To indulge in all innocent larks 
 
 Which my free roving fancy could find, 
 I'd play each unpatented trick 
 
 That to youthful affection appeals, 
 Yet I never dared say to a " dad " 
 
 " You're a nice looking dude upon wheels." 
 
Cycling Bab Ballads. 153 
 
 Now this is the nuisance I say 
 
 That Councils must surely abate, 
 For, brothers, what is there at all 
 
 In Councils, or Senate, or State, 
 If we cyclers can't ride at our ease 
 
 Without hearing the pride-purging squeals 
 Come sailing along, from some son going wrong : 
 
 " You're a nice looking dude upon wheels " ? 
 
 THE devil take the bicycle," 
 Was all the deacon said, 
 When bearing up against the wind 
 
 He landed on his head ; 
 So said his wife when putting back 
 
 The broomstick in the shed, 
 While the good man wished for two stout Turks 
 And a trusty feather bed. 
 
RHYME THE LAST. 
 
 after all the bother 
 
 This old book has given Chris, 
 Will you not for once be kindly 
 Every girl knows how to kiss. 
 Ha! you say that asking in this 
 
 Fashion, I the boon shall miss; 
 Perhaps — but have you never dreamed 
 That Chris would sing a sonc; like this 
 
 154 
 
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