But now all we want of the moss or the bucket,
Is to hear it in some minstrel lay.
Give us the pitcher of silver and gold,
Containing ice water, refreshing and cold;
We love the new pitcher; we know it is clean;
Not buried in mud, worn mossy and green.
Who wants the old bucket? It’s gone with its time,
Remembered alone by the bard in his rhyme;
So we’ll sing to the new and not to the old—
Give us the pitcher of silver and gold.