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.