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SIR WALTER SCOTT
Stop thine ear against the singer; From the red gold keep thy finger; Vacant heart and hand and eye, Easy live and quiet die.
��559 The Rover's Adieu
AWEARY 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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