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The Broken Pitcher

[The happiest moments of a soldier in times of peace are when sat round the hearth of his neat little barrack room, along with his comrades, spinning yarns and telling tales; sometimes giving the history of some famous battle or engagement in which he took a prominent part; other times he will relate his own love adventures; then the favourite of the room will oblige them with his song of “Nelson” or “Napoleon” (generally being the favourites with them); – then there is the fancy tale teller, who amuses all. But in all cases the teller of a tale, yarn, or story, makes himself the hero of it, and especially when he speaks of the lass he left behind him; hence this adventure with the “Lassie by the Well.”]

There was a bonny Lassie once

Sitting by a well —

But what this bonny Lassie thought

I cannot, cannot tell —

When by there went a cavalier

Well known as Willie Wright,

Just in full marching order,

His armour shining bright.

“Ah maiden, lovely maiden, why

Sits thou by the spring?

Dost thou seek a lover, with

A golden wedding ring?

Or wherefore dost thou gaze on me,

With eyes so bright and wide?

Or wherefore does that pitcher lay

Broken by thy side?”

“My pitcher it is broken, sir,

And this the reason is,

A villian came behind me,

An’ he tried to steal a kiss.

I could na take his nonsense,

So ne’er a word I spoke,

But hit him with my pitcher,

And thus you see ’tis broke.”

“My uncle Jock McNeil, ye ken

Now waits for me to come;

He canna mak his Crowdy,

Till t’watter it goes home.

I canna tak him watter,

And that I ken full weel,

And so I’m sure to catch it, —

For he’ll play the varry de’il.”

“Ah maiden, lovely maiden,

I pray be ruled by me;

Smile with thine eyes and ruby lips,

And give me kisses three.

And we’ll suppose my helmet is

A pitcher made o’ steel,

And we’ll carry home some watter

To thy uncle Jock McNeil.”

She silently consented, for

She blink’d her bonny ee,

I threw mi arms around her,

And gave her kisses three.

To wrong the bonny Lassie

I sware ’twould be a sin;

So knelt dahn by the watter

To dip mi helmet in.

Out spake this bonny Lassie,

“My soldier lad, forbear,

I wadna spoil thi bonny plume

That decks thi raven hair;

Come buckle up thy sword again,

Put on thi cap o’ steel,

I carena for my pitcher, nor

My uncle Jock McNeil.”

I often think, my comrades,

About this Northern queen,

And fancy that I see her smile,

Though mountains lay between.

But should you meet her Uncle Jock,

I hope you’ll never tell

How I squared the broken pitcher,

With the Lassie at the well.

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