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.