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.