weary lot is thine, fair maid, <br />A weary lot is thine! <br />To pull the thorn thy brow to braid, <br />And press the rue for wine. <br />A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien, <br />A feather of the blue, <br />A doublet of the Lincoln green— <br />No more of me ye knew, <br />My Love! <br />No more of me ye knew. <br />'This morn is merry June, I trow, <br />The rose is budding fain; <br />But she shall bloom in winter snow <br />Ere we two meet again.' <br />—He turn'd his charger as he spake <br />Upon the river shore, <br />He gave the bridle-reins a shake, <br />Said 'Adieu for evermore, <br />My Love! <br />And adieu for evermore.'<br /><br />Sir Walter Scott<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-rover-s-adieu/
