the winter it is past

　　the winter it is past, and the summer comes at last

　　and 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.