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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.