The Old Willow Basket

The Old Willow Basket

O, poets have sung of the old oaken bucket.
Like-wise of the bootjack that hung on the wall.
My lyre I'm attuning to sing of a treasure
To my humble notion surpassing them all.
I speak of the basket my Grandmother cherished.
And gladly I offer this tribute of praise
To the dear willow basket, quaint willow basket.
The old willow basket of Grandmother's days.

At home it held proudly her mending and knitting.
Her great balls of worsted and gay colored yarns.
Her needles and thread, and her latest quilt piecing.
And even the stockings awaiting her darns.
In short, a receptacle, useful and handy,
Revealing her neat and industrious ways,
Was that blessed old basket, that queer old basket.
That old willow basket of Grandmother's days.

When calling she came how we hurried to meet her !
With whoops of delight the old basket we'd hail.
We knew that a store there of lovely surprises
Its uplifted lid would reveal without fail,
O, still I can smell the rare odors that greeted
Our senses from sweet-meats and apples in store
In that old willow basket, rare willow basket.
Entrancing old basket that Grandmother bore.

But now she is gone, as an heir-loom it's left us,
A cherished reminder of old-fashioned days.
O me! while we praise, admire and adore them,
I fear we've not copied her dear, thrifty ways.
But close in our memory fore'er we'll enshrine it,
Our voices forever in homage we'll raise
To that dear willow basket, precious old basket
That hallowed old basket of Grandmother's days.