Poetry Archives

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.’