Sir Walter Scott

The Rover's Adieu

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.'