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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.

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