Britannia needs no bulwark—
Tariffs her trade to keep,
Her "wheels" are found on every path;
Coventry's not asleep.
Our Woods and Howells wheel like fun,
Jack Keen can make 'em go.
Foes we floor from each shore,
Whereof Sturmey's trumpets blow—
Our Cyclists lick the world by long,
And Sturmey's trumpets blow.