| Lyrics: | OLD OAKEN BUCKET
(Samuel Woodworth and George Kialmark)
How dear to my heart are
the scenes of my childhood
When fond recollections presents them to view
the orchard, the
meadow, the deep tangled wildwood,
And ev'ry loved spot which my infancy knew
The
wide spreading 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.
That moss covered bucket I hailed 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 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 turth
ov'erflowing,
And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well.
How sweet from the
green, mossy brim to receive it,
As, poised on the curb, it inclined to my lips!
Not a
full blishing goblet could tempt me to leave it,
Tho' 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 that hung in
the well.
@nostalgia
filename[ OAKBUCK
SF
===DOCUMENT BOUNDARY |
