A Weary Lot Is Thine
‘A 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 you knew,
My love!
No more of me you 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 turned his charger as he spake,
Upon the river shore,
He gave his bridle-reins a shake,
Said ‘Adieu for evermore,
My love!
And adieu for evermore.’