Poem – The Rover’s Adiew

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.’ 

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