weary lot is thine, fair maid, br A weary lot is thine! br To pull the thorn thy brow to braid, br And press the rue for wine. br A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien, br A feather of the blue, br A doublet of the Lincoln green— br No more of me ye knew, br My Love! br No more of me ye knew. br 'This morn is merry June, I trow, br The rose is budding fain; br But she shall bloom in winter snow br Ere we two meet again.' br —He turn'd his charger as he spake br Upon the river shore, br He gave the bridle-reins a shake, br Said 'Adieu for evermore, br My Love! br And adieu for evermore.