Shall I tell you what I'm thinking
As I sit alone to-day,
While the ruddy coals are shrinking
Into ashes wan and gray?

I am thinking of my cycle,
Swift as any Arab steed;
Graceful in its revolutions,
Geared exactly right for speed.

I am old and nearly sixty,
Staid and settled in my ways,
Yet my heart will throb with pleasure
Thinking of my cycling days.

Tell me not of balls and dances,
O ye folk of feeble wits,
Scottish, polka, waltz, or barn-dance,
Cycling beats them " all to fits. "

In the dance how many giddy
Revolutions must you do;
While in cycling you sit steady.
And your wheel gyrates — not you.

In the dance the conversation
Is the silliest you have heard!
But the wheel — your iron partner —
Ne'er interpolates a word.

In the dance the air is poisoned
With carbonic acid gas,
On the wheel you meet the freshness
Of the morning as you pass.

So I think I've made my case clear,
And you'll agree with me
That there's naught comes up to cycling
If you've " goodlie companie. "

I say my age was sixty,
And my riding days were o'er?
Perish such a dreary notion!
I will cycle more and more,

Till my limbs no more support me,
And my vision clouded be,
All the present, past and future
Merge into eternity.