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.