LITTLE LEAVES FOR LITTLE READERS.
Old oaken bucket
WhatYankee, brought up in the country, does not remember the old oaken bucket? It is the fashion now, in New England, to draw the water from the well by means of a windlass; but twenty or thirty years ago, it was the custom to draw it up with a long pole, set across an upright beam. To one end of this pole, swung a rope or long stick, and the bucket was attached to this.
There is a beautiful song, about the old oaken bucket, written by Mr. Samuel Woodworth, a native of Scituate, in Massachusetts. It is very well known, and many of my readers have no doubt seen it, but I wish them all to learn it by heart.
Such pretty songs as this, not only give a great deal of innocent pleasure, but they are useful, in a high degree. They make us more fond of that place which we call home; they serve to attach us to our country; they serve to make us content with the simplicity of early times and of country life. If we think how many thousand times this song has been sung; what an immense amount of enjoyment it has given, and how much real good it has done, we shall see that there is great reason why we should all remember Samuel Woodworth with pleasure and respect.
THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET.
How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood,When fond recollection presents them to view;The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wild-wood,And every loved 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 which hung in the well.The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,The moss-covered bucket that hangs in the well.That moss-covered vessel 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 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.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 would tempt me to leave it,Though fill’d with the nectar which Jupiter sips.And now far removed from the loved situation,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 his well.
How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood,When fond recollection presents them to view;The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wild-wood,And every loved 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 which hung in the well.The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,The moss-covered bucket that hangs in the well.That moss-covered vessel 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 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.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 would tempt me to leave it,Though fill’d with the nectar which Jupiter sips.And now far removed from the loved situation,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 his well.
How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood,
When fond recollection presents them to view;
The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wild-wood,
And every loved 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 which hung in the well.
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-covered bucket that hangs in the well.
That moss-covered vessel 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 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.
That moss-covered vessel 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 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.
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 would tempt me to leave it,Though fill’d with the nectar which Jupiter sips.And now far removed from the loved situation,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 his well.
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 would tempt me to leave it,
Though fill’d with the nectar which Jupiter sips.
And now far removed from the loved situation,
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 his well.