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.
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.
(Not seasonally accurate just yet, but the poem was short enough to keep my attention and easily enough read and understood to get a modicum of my affection. Robert Burns was a Scottish poet, from the times when cravats were all the rage. His birthday is celebrated in the UK, and in Scotland in particular. Thought I’d mention it for once, even if I can’t stand poetry myself. )