I have three feet, but no arms and no legs. What am I?

A guardian of some renown, I perch like a spear. I sit beneath the crown, and strike any who draw near. I am a brethren with a spine, and may let you enter my hall. Against giants I hold the line, but not those who are small.

I’m stuck, like a sheet of glue. If loose, I must be wound. My ribbon transfers through. A sight or mix of sounds. Record what’s deemed by you. Now boxed up, where I’m found. Ironic is my fate, it’s true. I seal what keeps me bound.

In Victorian times, men used to lay their cloak over me, so women could step down from carriages without ruining their shoes or dress. What am I, that, when stepped in, will make a mess?

I spin in endless circles under colorful lights and cheerful tunes that fill the air with joy. Children climb aboard my painted horses lions camels and chariots that rise and fall like waves in a gentle sea. I turn without ever moving forward trapped in a ring of laughter and dreams where time pauses for a magical ride. At fairs and parks I wait for the next group to hop on and chase the brass ring that promises another go. What am I?