“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.

“The morn is merry June...