Loudon free press. (Loudon, Tenn.) 1852-1855, 1853-04-22

The OLD OAKEY BUCKET.-Ihis beautiful
song or ballad is said to have had its origin I'M
der the following circumstances, which gives it
additional interest:
Some years ago, when Woodwork, the prin-
ter,and several old New Workers. were brother
typos in printing Office, which was situated
at the corner of Chatham street and Chambers,
there were very few places in the city of New
York where one could get a really good drink
Among the few places worthy of patronage, was
an establishment kept by Mallory, on Frank
I'm street, on or about the spot where St. Johns
Hall recently stood Woodwork, in company
with several particular friends, had dropped n
at this place for the purpose of taking some
brandy and water which Mallory was famous
for keeping.
The liquor was super-excelent, and Wood
worth seemed inspired by it; and after taking
draught, he laid his glass on the tablet remem-
Der, reader, if you please, that in those rare old
times a man rarely met friend without invi-
ting him to imbibe,l and smacking his lips, de-
clared that Mallorys eau de ne was superior to
any he ever tasted. "No" said NJ, 'you are
quite mistaken; there was one which, in both of
our eStimations far surpasses this in the way of
drinking "What was that? asked Woodwork,
obviously. The draught of the pure fresh wa
ter, that we used to drink from the old oaken
bucket, that hung in the well, after our return
from the labors Of the field on a sultry day in
summer"
The tear-drop glstenedfor amoment in Wood
wOrth's eye. "True! truel' he replied, and soon
after he quilted the place. He returned to the
office, grasped the pen, and in half an hour
The old oaken bucket one of the most delight
ful compositions in our language, was ready in
70 10 ,l,ol, A.
succeeding generations.
THE OLD oAKEN BUCKET.
How dear to my heartare the of my childhood,
When fond recollection presents them to view,
The orchard,the meadow, the deep tangled wildwood
And every loved spot that my infancy knew;
The wide spreading pond, 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 cen the rude bucket which 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 hail as a treasure
For often at noon, when returned from the field,
found it the source of an exquisite pleasure,
The purest and sweetest that nature can yield:
How ardent seized it,with hands that were glowing,
And quick to the white pebbled bottom it fell,
Then soon with the emblems of truth overlooking
And dripping with GOODNESS it rose from the well.
The old oaken bucket-the iron bound Bucket
The mOss-eo covered bucket arose from the we'll
How sweet from the green messy brm to receive it,
When poised on the curb it inclined to my lips
Not full bushng goblet could tempt me to leave it,
Though filled with the nectar that Jubiter sips
And now far removed from that loved situation,
The tear of regret will intrusivety swell,
As fancy reverts to my fathers plantation,
And signs for the bucket which hangs in the well.
The old oaken bucket-the iron-bound bucket,
The moss covered bucketwhich hangsin the well.