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 doubtlet 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
He gave the bridle-reins a shake,
Said, "Adieu for evermore,
My love!
And adieu for evermore."
Sir Walter Scott
195