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220. Song—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.

Poem by Robert Burns
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