New Orleans daily crescent. [volume] ([New Orleans, La.]) 1851-1866, 1853-04-14
DAILY CRESCENT.
THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET.

This beautiful and popular song or ballad, it
said to have had its origin under the following
Some years ago, when Woodworth, the printer,
and several Sc 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 enjoy the luxury Of
really good drink. Among the few places most
worthy of patronage, was an establishment
kept by Mallory, on Franklin street, about the
spot where st. Johns Hall recently stood.
Woodworth, in company with several particular
friends, had dropped in at this place one after
noon, for the purpose of taking some {" brandy
and water which Mallory was famous for
keeping.
The liquor was super-excellent, and Wood
worth seemed inspired by it; for, after taking
a draught, he laid his glass on, the table, IRE
member, reader, if you please, that in those
g rare old times,'' man rarely met friend
without asking him to imbibe,) and smacking
his lips, declared that MaIlory's eau de pie was
superior to any he ever tasted. "No,' said NJ.
" you are quite mistaken; there was one which,
in both our estimations, far surpasses this in
the way. Of drinking. What was that p
drink from the old 0dken bucket that hung in
the we'll, after our return from the labors of the
field on sultry day in the summer
| The tear-drop glistened for a moment in
Woodworth's eye. "True! truep' he replied
and soon after quilted the place He returned
to the Office, grasped the pen, and in half ar
| hour 90 The Old Oaken Bucket" one Of the mos
delightful compositions in our language, wal
ready, in manuscript, to be embalmed in thu
memories of succeeding generations.
THE OLD oAKEN BUCKET
How dear to my heart 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 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 which hung in the well.
The old oaken bucket-the iron bound bucket,
| The moss covered bucket which hung in the well.
| That moss lowered vessel hail as a treasure
| For often at noon. when returned from the field,
| 1 found it the source Of exquisite pleasure,
| The purest and sweetest that nature yield.
How ardent seized 1t, with hands that glowin
| And quick to the white pebble bottom 1t fell,
Then with the emblem Of truth overfowing
| And dripping with coolnese II 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,
When poised on the curb, 1t inclined to my lips
Not full, gushing goblet could tempt me TO leave it
| Though filed with the nectar that Jupiter sips,
| And now far removed from that loved situation,
The tear of regret will intrusively swell,
As fancy reverts TO my fathers plantation,
And sighs for the bucket which hangs in the we'll
The old oaken bucket-the iron bound bucket,
The moss-covered bucket which hangs in the well.