Robert Burns

The Winter It Is Past

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 front 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.