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 snowEre we two meet again.’He turned his charger as he spakeUpon the river shore,He gave the bridle-reins a shake,Said, ‘Adieu for evermore,My Love!And adieu for evermore.’