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The Rovers Adieu

 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.

by Sir Walter Scott
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