:'«»' £-\ " n i TnJsJv, "^ " A rf* Cj /, RHYMES OF THE RGAD AND RIVER By CHRIS. WHEELER Lays of Lancaster Pike; Songs of the Schuylkill River; Bent Oars and Broken Spokes ; Cycling Bab Ballads. PHILADELPHIA: E. STANLEY MART cS: CO. 18S5. Copyright, 1885, by Chris. Wheelek. TO 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- lish 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. v 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. viii 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, ....... Si Friendship's Influence, ..... 82 " Good-bye, Rob," S3 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, 1879, • IO ° Memory Arches, ....... 102 Sing Me 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 Ride, ....... 133 The Lay of a Recreant, . . . . . .136 "Le Misanthrope," ...... 138 The Britisher's Lament, . . . . . .141 The Britisher's Lament, No. 2, . . . . 145 Devon Hill, . . . . . . . .148 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 Fike. 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 Alomr its level shore. *s> 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. ly 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, \\ hat 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 ; ( )li ! the wheel will link in a long bright chain The stars which divided might 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, 21 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 Glide 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 The)' 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 Fast breezes Wait that Western breeze to greet. 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 sing; 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 fever, 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 1 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 smiling bright; And it must have been from the contrast Of changing their light for the dark, That I came in collision 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 feci, 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 5 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. ^y 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 Lays 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 sons Which sang " good-night." Shortly after I went riding, A-riding, a-riding, While a handkerchief flew waving 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 whistling wind swept back my song, " Good-night, good-night." THE PIKE PUMP. I J" ERE once again, our journey completed, JL 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 ! 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 bendimr 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. \9 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 Kairmount 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, Songs 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 fling. 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 frame in words But what, was left behind, 56 Songs of the Schuylkill River. 57 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 Schuylkill 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. 60 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 61 6 2 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 curving 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 blowing, 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 So?igs 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 Bell." •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. 7i BENT OARS AND BROKEN SPOKES. BENT AND BROKEN ON BOTH SIDES OF 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 j6 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 clinging 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 Bent 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 80 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 lies, 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 dyiner, Can forever keep what it never gave. Si 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 LAV 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; S3 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, old 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 why, 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. ( )i" 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 Bent 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. 9 1 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. 9.2 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 sonars once were sung": 95 g6 Bent Oars and Broken 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, 1SS5. NIAGARA! Niagara! The voice of thy waters Hoarsely confiding their story to me ; Here as I ride round The shore of this island Echoes thv 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 Bent 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 flinjjin"- 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. H O ! for the blue 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 ! 100 Bent Oars and Broken Spokes. 101 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. I02 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. T HE 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 clanger, 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. 108 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. 1 1 1 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 lisjht on the forehead Though the heart holds a shadow Which though mourning, it still Will reluctlantly lose. 112 MY FRIEND'S 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. IT 3 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. 1 1 5 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. 116 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 life 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. 118 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 Befit 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 L IFE 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 1 At the straying breeze that free, Whispers low to every tree. So! you're silent; then I see Just how much you value me. ,2 3 YOUR AUTOGRAPH, PLEASE. FRIENDSHIP'S chain fate often fashions In the lao of chance and flings Lights and shadows of life'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 life that hurries You along as well as Chris; Therefore, dear, I will allow, that In some things I've been remiss. "5 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. 129 130 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, Hut 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. I3 1 132 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, lie 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. 137 Riding in a buggy, boys, behind a trotting marc. 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 marc. 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 you 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 net 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 on 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 ; MS 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 handlebar-numbed 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 busted 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 "grand old man"* shall hear * William Ewart Gladstone. !_|S 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 1 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 song like this. i54