The Bedpost
Sleepy Betsy from her pillow
Sees the post and ball
Of her sister’s wooden bedstead
Shadowed on the wall.
Now this grave young warrior stadning
With uncovered head
Tells her stories of old battle
As she lies in bed:
How the Emperor and the Farmer
Fighting knee to knee,
Broke their swords but whirled their scabbards
Till they gained the sea.
How the ruler of that shore
Foully broke his oath,
Gave them beds in his sea cave,
Then stabbed them both.
How the daughters of the Emperor,
Diving boldly through,
Caught and killed their father’s murderer,
Old Cro—bar—cru.
How the Farmer’s sturdy sons
Fought the Giant Gog,
Threw him into Stony Cataract
In the land of Og.
Will and Abel were their names,
Though they went by others:
He could tell ten thousand stories
Of these lusty brothers.
How the Emperor’s elder daughter
Fell in love with Will
And went with him to the Court of Venus
Over Hoo Hill;
How Gog’s wife encountered Abel
Whom she hated most,
Stole away his arms and helmet,
Turned him to a post.
As a post he shall stay rooted
For yet many years,
Until a maiden shall release him
With pitying tears.
But Betsy likes the bloodier stories,
Clang and clash of fight,
And Abel wanes with the spent candle—
“Sweetheart, good—night!”
