Banks Of Cree

Here is the glen, and here the bower,
All underneath the birchen shade;
The village-bell has told the hour,
O what can stay my lovely maid.

'Tis not Maria's whispering call;
'Tis but the balmy breathing gale,
Mixt with some warbler's dying fall
The dewy star of eve to hail.

It is Maria's voice I hear;
So calls the woodlark in the grove
His little, faithful Mate to chear,
At once 'tis music - and 'tis love.

And art thou come! and art thou true!
O welcome dear to love and me!
And let us all our vows renew
Along the flowery banks of Cree.