432. The Rover

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 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.’