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.