THE OLD TRUNDLE-BED

O the old trundle-bed where I slept when a boy!

What canopied king might not covet the joy?

The glory and peace of that slumber of mine,

Like a long, gracious rest in the bosom divine:

The quaint, homely couch, hidden close from the light,

But daintily drawn from its hiding at night.

O a nest of delight, from the foot to the head,

Was the queer little, dear little, old trundle-bed!

O the old trundle-bed, where I wondering saw