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.'