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 ye knew,         My Love! No more of me ye 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.'