Song: “A weary lot is thine, fair maid”

“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, I trow—   The rose is budding fain; But she 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-rein a shake,   Said, “Adieu for evermore,             My love!   And adieu for evermore.”