The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket, which hung in the well.

How dear to my heart are the scenes of my childhood, When fond recollection recalls them to view; The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wildwood, And every loved spot which my infancy knew.

Then soon with the emblem of truth overflowing, And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well.

How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood, When fond recollection presents them to view.

The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket, which hung in the well.