The Old Trundle Bed

1895

Oh, 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 place at night.
Oh, a nest of delight, from the foot to the head,
Was the queer little, dear little old trundle bed!

Oh, the old trundle bed where I wondering saw
The stars through the window and listened with awe
To the sigh of the winds as they tremblingly crept
Through the trees where the robins so restlessly slept;
Where I heard the low, murmurous chirp of the wren
And the katydid listlessly chirrup again
Till my fancies grew faint and were drowsily led
Through the maze of the dreams of the old trundle bed.

Oh, the old trundle bed! Oh, the old trundle bed!
With its plump little pillow and old fashioned spread,
Its snowy white sheets and the blankets above,
Smoothed down and tucked round with the touches of love;
The voice of my mother to lull me to sleep
With the old fairy stories may memories keep
Still fresh as the lilies that bloom o'er the head
Once bowed o'er my own in the old trundle bed!

— James Whitcomb Riley in "Armazindy."