Rover, The Rover, The |
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Rover, TheRover, The
Rover, The
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.`
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