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.