The Winter it is past

Robert Burns (1759–1796)

The winter it is past, and the simmer comes at last,And the small birds sing on every tree;Now every 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.