The Winter It Is Past
The winter it is past, and the summer comes at lastAnd the small birds, they sing on ev’ry tree;Now ev’ry thing is glad, while I am very sad,Since my true love is parted from me.
The rose upon the breer, by the waters running clear,May have charms for the linnet or the bee;Their little loves are blest, and their little hearts at rest,But my true love is parted from me.