How Dear to My Heart 

are the 

Scenes of My Childhood!

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 wild-wood,

  And every 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—

The old oaken bucket, 

the iron-bound bucket,

The moss-covered bucket 

which hung in the well.

That moss-covered vessel 

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-pebbled bottom 

it fell;

Then soon, with the emblem 

of truth over-flowing,

  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 

could tempt me to leave it,

  The brightest that beauty 

or revelry 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 hangs in the well—

The old oaken bucket, 

the iron-bound bucket,

The moss-covered bucket 

that hangs in the well.

~  Samuel Woolworth (1784-1842)