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Two versions of the Old Oaken Bucket

The Old Oaken Bucket ~1818 by Samuel Woodworth.

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 wildwood,

And ev'ry 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 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 turth overflowing,

And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well.

The old oaken bucket, the iron bound bucket,

The moss covered bucket that hung in the well. The Old Oaken Bucket

The old oaken bucket

 (As revised by the Board of Health) ~Anonymous

With what anguish of mind I remember my childhood,

    Recalled in the light of knowledge since gained,

The malarious farm, the wet fungus-grown wildwood,

    The chills then contracted that since have remained;

The scum-covered duck-pond, the pig-sty close by it,

    The ditch where the sour-smelling house drainage fell,

The damp, shaded dwelling, the foul barnyard nigh it —

    But worse than all else was that terrible well,

And the old oaken bucket, the mold-crusted bucket,

    The moss-covered bucket that hung in the well.

Just think of it! Moss on the vessel that lifted

    The water I drank in the days called to mind;

Ere I knew what professors and scientists gifted

    In the waters of wells by analysis find;

The rotting wood-fiber, the oxide of iron,

    The algae, the frog of unusual size,

The water as clear as the verses of Byron,

    Are things I remember with tears in my eyes.

Oh, had I but realized in time to avoid them —

    The dangers that lurked in that pestilent draft —

I’d have tested for organic germs and destroyed them

    With potassic permanganate ere I had quaffed.

Or perchance I’d have boiled it, and afterwards strained it

    Through filters of charcoal and gravel combined;

Or, after distilling, condensed and regained it

    In potable form with its filth left behind.

How little I knew of the enteric fever

    Which lurked in the water I ventured to drink,

But since I’ve become a devoted believer

    In the teachings of science, I shudder to think.

And now, far removed from the scenes I’m describing,

    The story of warning to others I tell,

As memory reverts to my youthful imbibing

    And I gag at the thought of that terrible well,

And the old oaken bucket, the fungus-grown bucket,