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Robert Burns - Song—The Winter it is Past
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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.
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