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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.

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