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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.