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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. Poems and Songs of Robert Burns