How dear to my heart are the days of my childhood,
When fond recollection presents to my view
The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wild wood,
And ev'ry lov'd spot which my infancy knew;
The wide spreading pond, and the mill which 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 the bucket,
The moss covered bucket that hung in the well.
That moss covered bucket I hail as a treasure;
For often at noon, when return'd from the field,
I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure,
The purest and sweetest that nature could 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.
How sweet from the green mossy rim to receive it,
As pois'd on the curb it inclined to my lips;
Not a full flowing goblet could tempt me to leave it,
Tho' filled with the nectar that Jupiter sips.
And now, far removed from that situation,
The tear of regret will intrusively swell,
As fancy reverts to my father's plantation,
And sighs for the bucket which hung in the well.
The old oaken bucket,
The iron bound bucket,
The moss covered bucket that hung in the well.