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.