Gone were but the winter cold

Gone were but the winter cold,

And gone were but the snow,

I could sleep in the wild woods

Where primroses, primroses blow.

Cold's the snow at my head,

And cold at my feet;

And the finger of death's at my e'en,

Closing them to sleep.

Let none tell my father,

Or my mother so dear;

I'll meet them both in Heaven

At the spring of the year.