Vanity Fair (UK), March 2, 1905

(A Berlin paper offers a prize for the best motor-bicycle song submitted to it. The following effort, though it may fail to obtain the judge’s decision, can be sung with effect in any drawing-room.)

THE Heavens are looking their bluest,
   The dicky-bird pipes on the spray;
So put on your hat that is newest,
   And let’s spend a rollicking day.
[With romantic abandon.]
My motor-bike waits propped up at your gates
   ’Neath the shade of a neighbouring [ff] tree:
So [pp] give them the slip, and come out for a trip,
   Oh, come with my motor and [forte] me-e-e,
   O-o-oh ker-um with my motor and me.

Riding along on my motor-bike,
   Oh, won’t we be happy, my own!
If you look, you will find there’s a trailer behind:
   Take care when we bump on a stone.
If it happens to spill, as it probably will,
   Why, that will be fun, if you like:
A trifle so small doesn’t matter at all
   When you’re out on a motor-bike.

Hold tight to the side when we’re starting.
   (Yes, it always makes noises like that.)
The dust’s in your eyes, and they’re smarting?
   Try shading them under your hat.
You are not feeling well? You do not like the smell?
   Brace up. These are things which must be.
Don’t [p] let a perfume cast a shadow of gloom
   O’er [rollickingly] a ride on my motor with me-e-e,
   O-o’er a rah-ide on my motor with me.

Riding along on my motor-bike,
   Oh, watch how the mile-stones flash past!
Concealed in the gorse you will notice the Force;
   They think that we’re going too fast.
Did you hear a shrill squeal from beneath the front wheel?
   ’Twas a dog we had happened to strike:
But a canine decease doesn’t trouble your peace,
   When you’re out on a motor-bike.

(Note.—This, strictly speaking, is all. But as it is inconceivable that an intelligent audience will allow it to go unencored, an additional verse has been written. Unfortunately, it turns what promised to be a happy romance into a tragedy, and it should, therefore, be sung only when, in the opinion of the singer, the audience is sturdy enough to stand it.)

This morning she sent back my letters,
   Along with the presents and ring:
She freed me, she said, from my fetters:
   [Bitterly] A nice way of putting the thing.
She felt that her life would be nothing but strife,
   A burden and grief, she could see:
As she brutally said, she would rather be dead
   Than ride on my motor with me-e-e,
   Ride again on my motor with me.

P. G. Wodehouse.