The Lambertville press. [volume] (Lambertville, N.J.) 1858-1???, 1860-01-18
The Old Oaken Bucket.

! This beautiful and popular song or
ballad is said to have had its origin nm
der the following circumstances, which
gives it additional interest -
" Some years ago, when Woodwork,
the printer, and several other old
New Workers. were brother typos in
a printing Office, which was situated at
the corner of Chestnut and Chambers
street, 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 establish
ment kept by Mallory, on Franklin
street, on or about the same spot where
st. Johns Hall recently stood Wood
worth, in company with several par
ticular friends, had " dropped" in at
this place one afternoon, for the pur-
pose of taking some brandy and wa
ter" which Mallory was famous for
keeping. The liquor was super-exceI-
lent, and Woodwork seemed inspired
by it; for after taking draught he
laid his glass upon the table, (remem-
Der, reader, if you please, that in those
"rare old times +" man rarely met a
friend without inviting him to imbibe)
and smacking his lips declared that
Mallory's eau de vie was superior to
any he had ever tasted. "No,'' said
M, you are quite mistaken; there
was one thing in which, in both of our
estimations, far surpasses this, in the
way of drinking" "What was that ?n
asked Woodwork, obviously. The
druught of pure, fresh spring water
that we used to drink from the old oak
en- bucket that hung in the well, after
our return from the labors of the field
on a sultry day in summer" The
tear-drop glistened for moment in
Woodworth's eyes. True, true -
he replied, and soon after Quilted the
place. He returned to the Office.
grasped the pen, and in half an hour
The Old Oaken Bucket" one of the
most delightful compositions in our
language, was ready, in manuscript, to
be embalmed in the memories of sue
ceeding generations.
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-spseading 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 near it,
And e'en the rude bucket that hung in the
well
The old taken bucket, the iron bound bucket,
The moss-eovered bucket, that hung in the
well
The moss-covered vessel hail as 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 emblem of truth OVERLOOKING,
And dripping with goodness, it arose from the
well
The moss-covered bucket, arose from the well.
How sweet from the green messy brim to receive
it.
As poised on the curb it inclined to my lips
Not full blushing goblet could tempt me to
leave it,
Though filled with the nectar the tabled gods
And now far removed from the loved situation,
The tear of regret will intrusively swell,
AS fancy reverts to my fathers plantation,
And sigh for the bucket which hangs in the
we'll;
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-eovered bucket, which hangs in the