Yes, I know, poems about motorcycling tend towards the cringemaking, though some do break through the cringe barrier to reach a plateau of McGonical awfulness that is rather endearing. Bear with me. In those innocent years leading up to the Great War the Green 'Un regularly included poems so unashamedly silly that they deserve to be rescued from a hundred years of obscurity. Mount Pleasant!
Reginald's mount was a mild affair
With a gear of six to one.
An engine of one and a quarter hp
In lightness second to none.
It had been a pushbike in its youth
Til 'converted' up to date,
And still on a hill it would stop and brood
On its former pushful state.
The mount of Archibald (Reggie's friend)
Was a thing to approach with awe.
It was to the mount of Reginald
As the oak tree to the straw.
Its gear was one and a bit to one,
Its hp nine-eleven.
It wasn't a toy for a good little boy
Either under or over seven.
Now, it happened one day on the open road
Outside a well-known inn
That Reggie's single-cylinder
And Archibald's double twin
Stood side by side like lamb and lion
Awaiting their owners' start,
When who should arrive in a motorcar
But the gel of Reggie's heart!
Now, Reggie many a time had talked
Of his monster motor-bike,
Of its fearsome speeds and doughty deeds
(We, ourself, have done the like),
And the gel of his heart, of course, believed
In his deeds of derring do,
His "throttled to fifty miles an hour"
(Our girls have believed us too).
The girl of his heart admired the twin
And Reggie felt rather flat
When she pointed to Reggie's gentle mount
With, "Whose bit of wire is that?"
And when she declared the monster twin
Magnificent and fine,
Then Reginald told a sad untruth
And said, "Er – yes – that's mine."
When she said, "I'd love to see you ride,"
He tried in vain to evade,
But she pleaded hard, and soft as well,
Till Reggie, much dismayed,
Consented to kindly demonstrate,
So he gave the thing a run
And the – Did a comet hit the earth?
Or somebody fire a gun?
As Reggie explained, he was just about
To mount with skill and care,
When just as he hopped on the footboard – well,
The footboard wasn't there!
It's very annoying for Reginald
That the girl of his heart was present;
And the scene of his most un-pleasant dismount
Was mockingly called, "Mount Pleasant".
OMAR K–
Lochnivar was a hugely successful poem written by Sir Walter Scott and learned by generations of schoolchildren. It starts:
O young Lochinvar is come out of the west,
Through all the wide Border his steed was the best;
And save his good broadsword he weapons had none,
He rode all unarm'd, and he rode all alone.
So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,
There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.
Me, I prefer the Green 'Un's version.
The young Lochnivar has gone out for a ride;
His latest machine is the neighbourhood’s pride.
His gaiters are spotless, his spirits are gay,
He’s free from the office the whole of the day;
And men say, “A lucky young beggar you are!”
The ladies, “How handsome is young Lochnivar!”
He speeds on the level, he cares for no slope,
His engines with mountains is ready to cope.
Away from their troubles and worries of ‘biz”,
What sport could be matching this pleasure of his,
When only a puncture is able to mar
The perfect enjoyment of young Lochnivar?
“The views in the valley, the scenes on the hill,
The rest by the sweet shady side of the rill,
The speeding back homeward as even draws in,
The outing all day and the lunch at an inn,
No form of amusement I’ll base on a par
With things such as these,” cried the young Lochnivar.
“Oh! Grumblers may prate, as they frequently do,
Of road hogs (referring to me and to you),
I care not for them and their ignorant taunts,
They spoil not the fun of my motoring jaunts;
For health and good spirits undoubtedly are
Produced by such travel,” quoth young Lochnivar.
Now this one's downright silly – try reading it out loud. It took me a good few attempts to get it right (and I won't be allowed back in that library in a hurry).
Force of Habit
Major O'Finnigan Fadd,
Of the Onety-oneth Mounted Marines,
In full regimentals is clad,
And booted and spurred; for he means
To test his new seven-horse twin
By taking it out to begin
With a run round the town,
When pretty Miss Brown
Will likely be out for a spin.
Soldiers, enthralled, see him start;
Civilians, amazed, see him tear
Careering along to the part
Of the town that's frequented by her
He specially hopes to impress
By the daring and grace and address,
With which he bestrides
The monster he rides,
And controls at his will, more or less.
Pretty Miss Brown is in sight;
She's cycling ahead, without heed
Of the Major, who, wild with delight,
Cries "Hup! ye spalpeen!" to his steed;
And, spurred by his amorous fire,
He – rang! likewise – crash! – he is by her,
But – lost in a mist
Of language, the gist
Of which is: "I've spurred my back tyre!"
Before there were cheap family cars there were sidecar outfits, and before there were sidecars there were forecars and trailers. So here's a poem about forecars...
Young Petrolwise of whom I write,
A happy man was he
When he started on his honeymoon
With happy Mrs P;
For it seemed to them that life would run
As smoothly from that day
As ever any tri-car ran
Upon the King’s highway.
They were a happy couple
And one day a little bird
Told Mr P and Mrs P
About a minor third;
And, in view of probabilities,
They purchased at the show
A fore-car with a tiny seat
In front of that, you know.
Now petrolwise (I don’t think that
I mentioned this before)
Preferred a single-cylinder,
And by it of he swore.
Imagine his expression when
The Nurse one day ran in
To his shed – I mean his garage
And said “Please sir it’s a twin!”
The happy father, pardoned motor-
Cyclist that he was
Could not restrain a symptom of
Astonishment, because,
Although “The more the merrier”
Proverbial maybe
The tri-car wasn’t built for four
But only built for three
But he was of inventive mind,
Like Daedalus of old.
The twin-feed bottle was his own idea;
As was the two-stroke rocking chair
Worked by a single crank,
With timing gear for Mrs P.
To synchronise a spank.
But his triumph was the graduated
Four-to-one four-chair
To carry quintoplectively
Himself, his lady fair,
In front of them, in single file
The twins in front of them
(An item “to say nothing of”)
The dog. That’s all. Pro tem.
...and another about trailers.
My Algernon is loving,
My Algernon is kind,
He rides upon a motor bike
A-trailing me behind.
He is my lord and hero,
In him I fondly trust,
And let him drag my wicker chair
Through clouds of rolling dust.
Our loving conversation
Is limited, I fear,
For if I talk to Algernon
He might forget to steer.
Although a lot of matters
I’m longing to discuss,
I do not want to to be upset
Beneath a tram or ’bus.
So, happy and contented,
I sit discretely dumb,
And watch the landscape whirling by,
And hear the motor hum.
My Algernon is perfect,
Good looks he does not lack.
I love to gaze upon his face
But chiefly see his back.
My Algernon is loving,
My Algernon is kind,
He rides upon a motor bike
A-trailing me behind.
And till the tyres are punctured,
Or till the engine bust,
I’ll let him drag my wicker chair
Through clouds of rolling dust.
No wonder it didn't take long for the benefits of the sidecar to be appreciated.
Where the Sidecar Scores
Oh! forecar, you're a poor device
For lovers twain, alack!
She cannot see her swain at all,
While he beholds her back.
No tender glances are exchanged –
Indeed, the case is sad;
No arm can gentle steal around
To make waist places glad.
Familial resistance to motorcycling clearly dates back to the very beginning...
Motorcycling Parodies: A Change of View
(With apologies to Sir WS Gilbert.) When I first took that motor-bike out,
The family hastened to sneer:
"When once you get moving,
'Twill quickly be proving
The dickens to handle and steer.
Its cost will be woefully vast;
Your affluent days will be past.
And ere far you've proceeded,
A train will be needed
To bring you back homeward at last."
Yes! that's what they babbled about,
When I first took that motor-bike out.
But after I'd had it a while,
They noticed how grandly it went.
'Twas health's own concocter,
And banished the doctor,
'Twas worth every penny I spent.
My talk introduced to their view
The places and scenes I went through,
Till no more they derided,
But promptly decided
To go out and purchase one too.
They put off their pitying smile
As soon as I'd had it a while.
...as does the sheer delight of pottering about on your bike.
The Change “The motorcyclist may be seen wherever there is anything interesting”
I always like to poke around
And dream my dreams in famous places.
I deem it almost holy ground
That show ancient castle’s traces,
Loving to sit and ponder how
The cries and countercries of battle
Rang loudly over what is now
A peaceful pasturage for cattle.
But few such sights were mine to see;
Each old baronial tactician
Had fixed, without consulting me,
His geographical position.
Of all my neighbourhood could yield
I long had been a careful noter,
But had not wandered far afield
Until at last I bought a motor.
Ah me! A wond’rous, welcome change!
Its cost (which once I thought alarming)
Has purchased me the power to range
Wherever there is aught that’s charming.
Each famous building, old world haunt,
For sight of which I once was pining,
Has been the object of a jaunt
When England’s summer sun was shining.
This jolly rhyme, from more than a century ago, captures that joyous enthusiam of those early years.
To the waverer
If you have the leisure,
Listen while I sing
Songs of joy and pleasure
Passing beyond measure
Everything
Go and buy a motor-bike,
Never mind what maker,
Let the choice be what you like –
Hack or record-breaker.
See it has an engine on,
Wheels and pedals likewise;
Saddle, too, to sit upon
Sound and motor-bike wise.
Fill the tank with petrol up,
Get the plug a-sparking,
Oil – at least a breakfast cup –
Start the engine barking.
Now the road, the open road,
With its charms alluring,
Drives you with its golden goad –
Drives you forth a-touring.
Spend no pelf on pocket-maps,
Take no route selected,
Seek the glorious “Perhaps” –
Choose the unexpected.
Motorcycling waits for you –
All its joys untasted!
You would count, if but you knew,
Ev’ry moment wasted.
Winter fog, or snow, or rain!
Why should they dismay you?
“Wait till summer comes again!”
Don’t let that delay you.
Go and get a motor-bike,
Dally not to choose it;
If you know what joy is like,
Get one – and then use it!
We're still in those innocent days before the Great War, and who could begrudge a pioneer motorcyclist the odd gallon of ale before his dusty ride home? No speed cameras to worry about, no breathalyzers, not even any blacktop roads – but watch out for cows!
The Meeting
The cow at eve had drunk her fill,
And chewed the cud, the time to kill;
What time the ruddy orb of day
Departed in the usual way.
The mists of twilight gather chill;
The lark’s song ends, upon a trill;
The drooning bees seek earned repose;
The pink-tipped daisies’ petals close;
The sleepy breeze forsakes the mill;
And bids the murmuring trees be still;
And Turmoil seems a thing afar,
But - Bill has left the gate ajar!
Young Brown at eve had drunk his fill,
And much enriched the landlord’s till;
And sunset found him on the road,
Intent on reaching his abode.
His friends’ discussions heeding nil,
Who sought some cautionn to instil,
He rashly rides his motorbike;
Which every moment seems to strike
A wobbling patch of road which will
Inevitably cause a spill.
And Turmoil now seems not so far;
For - Bill has left the gate ajar!
The placid cow chewed on until
(The ink nigh freezes on my quill!)
Her roving eye chanced on the gate.
(Alas, that seals our hero’s fate!)
She strolls out through it. Reader, thrill!
For Brown is tearing down the hill!
At forty miles an hour he flies;
And lo, two cows before him rise!
He grinds his teeth, but trusts his skill
To steer between the pair . . . And Bill
Who hears the Turmoil from afar,
Cries “Gee, I’ve left that gate ajar”
Introduction
