SONG

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 turn’d 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.’ Sir W. Scott.