Song—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.