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.