[The happiest moments of a soldier in time of peace is 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, othertimes 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 favourite with them;—then there is the fancy tale teller which 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 his adventure with the Lassie by the Well.”]

Three 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 Wryght,
He was in full marching order
With his armour shining bright.

“Ah maiden, lovely maiden, why
Sits thou by the spring?
Doest thou seek a lover with
A golden wedding ring.
Or wherefore doest thou gaze on me,
With eyes so bright and wide?
Or wherefore does that pitcher lay
Broken by thy side?”

“My pitcher is broken, sir,
And this the reason is,
A villain came behind, and
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,
An’ 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 my arms around her neck,
And gave her kisses three.
To wrong the bonny lassie
I sware ’t would be a sin;
So I knelt down by the watter
To dip my helmet in.

Out spake this bonny lassie,
“My soldier lad, forbear,
I wodna spoil thee bonny plume
That decks thy raven hair;
Come buckle up thy sword again,
Put on thy 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 oceans roll 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.