THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET.
Samuel Woodworth. G. Kiallmark.
(Air: Araby's Daughter.)
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How dear to this heart are the scenes of my child-hood, When
The or - chard, the mead - ow, the deep - tan - gled wild- wood, And
d.c. The old oak - en buck - et — the i - ron - bound buck - et—The
Fine
fond rec - ol - lec - tion pre - sents them to view!
ev - 'ry loved spot which my in - fan - cy knew;
moss - cov - ered buck - et which hung in the well.
The wide-spread-ing pond, and the mill that stood by it— The
The cot of my fath - er, the dai - ry - house nigh it, And
D.C.
bridge and the rock where the cat - a - ract fell—
e'en the rude buck - et which hung in the well.
D.C.
2. That moss-covered vessel I hail 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-pebbled 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 arose from the well.
3. How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it,
As poised on the curb, it inclined to my lips!
Not a full-blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it,
Though filled with the nectar that Jupiter sips.
And now, far removed from the loved habitation.
The tear of regret will intrusively swell,
As fancy reverts to my father's plantation.
And sighs for the bucket, which hangs in the well—
The old oaken bucket — the iron-bound bucket—
The moss-covered bucket which hangs in the well.
