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 wildwood,
And every loved spot
Which 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 e’en the rude bucket
That hung in the well.
Refrain
The old oaken bucket,
The iron-bound bucket,
The moss covered bucket
That hung in the well.
The moss covered bucket
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 overflowing,
And dripping with coolness,
It rose from the well.
Refrain
How sweet from the green,
Mossy rim to receive it
As poised on the curb,
It inclined to my lip;
No full, blushing goblet
Could tempt me to leave it,
Tho’ filled with the nectar
That seraphim sip.
And now, far removed
From the loved situation,
The tear or regret
Will intrusively swell,
As fancy reverts
To my father’s plantation,
And sighs for the bucket
Which hung in the well.
Refrain
But dearer than fountain
Or well of our homestead,
The water of life which
Our Savior shall bring;
And brighter and cooler
Than old oaken bucket
Are draughts of salvation
From Heaven’s clear spring;
The wide stretching valleys
In colors so fadeless,
Where trees are all deathless
And flowers ever bloom;
The dearly belovèd
Who stands at the portal,
Expectantly waiting
To welcome us home,
’Tis better, far better,
Than all earth can give us,
To drink with our loved ones
At the fountain of God.
