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weary lot is
thine, fair maid,
A weary lot is thine!
To pull
the thorn thy brow to braid,
And press the rue for
wine.
A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien,
A feather
of the blue,
A doublet of the Lincoln green—
No
more of me ye knew,
My Love!
No more of me ye
knew.
'This morn is merry June, I trow,
The rose
is budding fain;
But she shall bloom in winter snow
Ere we two meet again.'
—He turn'd his charger as he
spake
Upon the river shore,
He gave the
bridle-reins a shake,
Said 'Adieu for evermore,
My
Love!
And adieu for evermore.'
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