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.
[ THE TWO APRIL MORNINGS]
We walked along, while bright and red Uprose the morning sun: And Matthew stopped, he looked, and said, ‘The will of God be done!’
A village schoolmaster was he, With hair of glittering grey; As blithe a man as you could see On a spring holiday.
And on that morning, through the grass, And by the steaming rills, We travelled merrily, to pass A day among the hills.
‘Our work,’ said I, ‘was well begun; Then, from thy breast what thought, Beneath so beautiful a sun, So sad a sigh has brought?’