‘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.’
|
Sir Walter
Scott | Classic
Poems |
|
[ Coronach ] [ Gathering Song of Donald the Black ] [ Lochinvar ] [ The Rover ] |