the flowery 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 cheer;
    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.