The Winter

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 brier,

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.