Bicycle, my bicycle, that liest where I lie,
I’ve merely strained a tendon, but your time has come to die.
(We’re tangled both together in a dry but dirty ditch ;
I wish a friend would come along and tell us which is which.)
To die, I say ; you’re human ; I can’t insult a bike
By talking of resilience and hub-sprockets and the like ;
Nor do I think of blaming you ; the best machine will skid
Upon a piece of orange-peel, exactly as you did.-—
And now that you are lying, my dear old ‘ safety ‘ wheel,
An armful of umbrella-ribs and odds and ends of steel,
Stored memories of journeys made by you and me awake ;
Mishap may take my breath away, but them it cannot take.
We never broke a record we never cared to try
Except the one for loitering, my bicycle and I.
‘Tis not with louts and motor-fiends that such as we compete ;
Ours is a tranquil travelling, and theirs the dust and heat.
Their Rhodes and Mitylene let other nations praise ;
Our roads are good enough for us, if you’ll forgive the phrase ;
I mean the little winding lanes one only finds at home,
And not the hard high roads they made when all roads led to Rome.
The East may call her lovers to Islands of the Blest,
Where every prospect pleases and the weary are at rest,
Where ain’t no Ten Commandments, and a man can raise a thirst
But I, a little Englander, put little England first.
We’ve tried East Anglian drift-roads, explored the Pilgrim’s Way,
Crossed tidal sands at Holy Isle, and stuck in Oxford clay ;
We’ve learnt the depth of Devon lanes, the height of Yorkshire dales,
And traced the chain of castled towns, the border-line of Wales.
We’ve passed by manor-houses with finials and things,
Stately Elizabethan fronts and Jacobean wings
An “eligible residence,'” once called a ‘ stately pile,’
That tolerates humanity with wisdom in its smile.
We’ve had the wind behind us, and pedalling apace,
The beauty born of whirring wheels has passed into my face ;
We’ve climbed the hills together, and together known the joy
Of coasting down the other side, like H. C. Beeching’s ‘ Boy.’
We’ve found the early cowslip, we’ve slept in fields of hay,
We’ve felt the spell of gorse in bloom, that made Linnasus pray,
Breathed deeply of the heather-bells, and underneath the moon
Tasted the South that blows across a field of beans in June.
We’ve faced the April showers that tarnish steel and paint ;
We’ve gone where bicycles may go as well as where they mayn’t
But now the times are changing, and I should not be surprised
To find the track up Sty Head Pass had been macadamised.
Ay, tempora mutantur ; the bicycle may rust,
While Urban District Councillors experiment with dust ;
While ranks of country constables are daily reinforced,
And many motor licenses remain to be endorsed.
Wherefore, all ye that list to hear our noble England’s praise,
Refuse to join the hymn of Speed that spoils her quiet ways ;
Have done with sixty miles an hour, and let your chauffeur smile
To learn that you prefer to spend an hour on every mile.
Go learn the heart of England ; there is no need to roam ;
The truest patriot begins, like charity, at home ;
Familiarity with her can never breed contempt
The rule applies to other lands, but England is exempt.
And how should they know England who do not England know?
The question begs the question, true, but still it serves to show
A paradox misquoted is an axiom reversed
She’s all right when you know her, but you’ve got to know her first.
(Frank Sidgwick)
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Based on Topics: Man Poems, Time Poems, Joy & Excitement Poems, Friendship Poems, Home Poems, Beauty Poems, Smiling Poems, Charity Poems, Praise Poems, Countries Poems, England PoemsBased on Keywords: compete, louts, blaming, explored, castled, coasting, eligible, applies, mayn, armful, axiom