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