The Massachusetts Spy, And Worcester County Advertiser

The treadmill song.
The stars are rolling in the sky,
The earth rolls on below,
And we can feel the rattling wheel
Revolving as we go.
Then tread away my gallant boy,
And make the axle fly:
Why shouldn't wheels go round about
Like planets in the sky?
Wake up, wake up, my duck-legged lad,
And stir your solid pegs:
Arouse, arouse, my gawky friend,
And shake your spider legs;
What though you're awkward at the trade,
There's time enough to learn,—
So lean upon the rail, my lad,
And take another turn.
They've built us up a noble wall.
To keep the vulgar out;
We've nothing in the world to do
But just to walk about.
And try to beat the ends,—
It's pleasant work to ramble round
Among one's honest friends.
Here, tread upon the long man's toes,
He sha'nt be lazy here,—
And punch the little fellow's ribs,
And tweak that lubber's ear—
He's lost them both—don't pull his hair
Because he wears a scratch,
But poke him in the further eye,
That isn't in the patch.
Hark! fellows, there's the supper bell,
And so our work is done;
It's pretty sport—suppose we take
A round or two for fun—
If ever they should turn me out,
When I have better grown,
Now hang me, but I mean to have
A treadmill of my own.