by Robert Burns (1759 - 1796)

The Winter it is past
Language: Scottish (Scots) 
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 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.

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Musical settings (art songs, Lieder, mélodies, (etc.), choral pieces, and other vocal works set to this text), listed by composer (not necessarily exhaustive)

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Researcher for this text: Jean Branch

This text was added to the website between May 1995 and September 2003.
Line count: 12
Word count: 76