Sir Walter Scott (1771–1832)

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 it shall bloom in winter snow

Ere we two meet again.

He turned his charger as he spake

Upon the river shore;

He gave his bridle-reins a shake,

Said, Adieu forevermore, my love;

And adieu forevermore.