The Bicycle

(Taken from Random Rhymes frae Cullybackey by Adam Lynn [Belfast: printed by W & G Baird, 1911])

Whun A landit in this 'ere world
'Twus a perfit disgrace
Tae see hoo lang it tuk the folk
Tae creep frae place tae place.

They had tae "coach" frae toon tae toon;
Some wint on donkey's creels,
An' if they thocht the road wus hard,
They just cud tak' the fiel's.

There wus a time, lang, lang ago
They ca'd the Staney Age;
Bit whun A first appeared on earth
Twus wud wus all the rage.

My wheels wur made wae saeson'd aesh,
Weel bun' wae iron straps;
An' all my ither perts wur strong,
An' proof aginst mishaps.

Bit intae iron soon A turned,
Grew intae yin big wheel,
Sae heich that those wha climbed me
Dismunted wae a squeal.

So thin A wus brocht doon a peg,
An' made a "cushion tyre,"
That those wha rid upon my baak
Their feet micht touch the mire.

Wae a' A did nae please the folk;
They murned aboot the bump,
An' sed, "Ye micht as weel ride on
A three-legg'd ass's rump."

An' A got sae hard tae push,
Some folk thocht A wus slow;
So thin A wus transformed agin,
An' noo is al' the go.

A'm ivery bit a patentee,
Up frae the very grun',
Wae tangint spokes an' hollo' rims,
An' tyres filled wae wun';

An' al' my bearin's rin in baals,
A'm geer'd tae yin-not-yin;
Bit thin they brake me ivery shape
Tae keep me oot o' sin.

A wud nae hae bin worth a fig,
Nor had sic' a guid name,
If th' ladies had nae fancied me
An' brocht me intae fame.

Yit still the folk they sit on me,
They tramp me left an' richt,
An' pit me ower these despirt roads,
Wae al' their well-trained micht.

A think my freen's micht pass a la',
Whun the roads ir sae bad,
An' let me go alang wae thim,
Whuriver there's a pad.

An' jumpy lines that hae nae pads,
Like those aboot the "Toors,"
Thin vote fur men tae pit yins doon,
Wha says they shall be oors.

Thin a'll tak' ye frae sweet Belfast,
Frae Carnlough, an' frae Lern',
Frae Cushendall an' fair Portrush,
An' dae ye little herm;

An' frae alang the great Bann shore,
Thin le'e ye safely bak',
Efter a warm yer jackets weel
On Ireland's best track.

April, 1902.