Book 4 — CCXXXVIII THE ROVER
Reading edition
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 the bridle-reins a shake, Said 'Adieu for evermore My Love! And adieu for evermore.'
Sir W. Scott