When last I heard their whistle’s chime.
Those boyous hours are passed away;
And many a heart that then was gay,
Out of or in town darkly dwells,
And rides not now those bicycles.
Again ’twill be—they are not gone;
That gleeful wheel will still roll on,
While I help bards to wire their shells
And sing your praise, fleet bicycles.
From Lyra Bicyclica, by J. G. Dalton. Boston, U.S., 1880.