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.