I have music, but no ears. I have a merry song, but no voice. I possess a herd of horses, but they never eat. They run all day, but never move their feet. I am always spinning, yet I stay in one place. I am a carnival classic. What am I?

The ocular result of onions cut, Or a can with a spout, When down, I'm diluting somewhat, At a hole, you can order a stout.

Colorful spheres of joy, tethered to dreams, rising with laughter and carrying wishes to the sky, popping with surprise when least expected.

I'm typically quite welcoming, I don't understand why everyone walks all over me...

Arr, matey! Up above where the seagulls ne'er fly, a grandy ship's top be this hidden sky. Keeps the rain at bay, but not the dreams of a sailor's eye.