The Old Oaken Bucket
1.
How dear to my heart are the
scenes of my childhood,
When fond recollection presents
them to view!
The orchard, the meadow, the
deep tangled wildwood,
And ev'ry loved spot which my
infancy knew;
The widespreading pond, and the
mill that stood by it,
The bridge and the rock where
the cataract fell,
The cot of my father, the dairy-
house nigh it,
And e'en the rude bucket that
hung in the well.
The old oaken bucket,
the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-covered bucket
that hung in the well.
2.
The mosscovered bucket I
hailed as a treasure,
For often at noon,
when returned from the field.
I found it the source of an
exquisite pleasure,
The purest and sweetest that
nature can yield.
How ardent I seized it with
hands that were glowing,
And quick to the white-peb-bled
bottom it fell;
Then soon, with the emblem of truth
overflowing,
And dripping with coolness, it
rose from the well.
The old oaken bucket,
the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-covered bucket
a rose from the well.