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 Marias whispering call;
Tis but the balmy breathing gale,
Mixt with some warblers dying fall,
The dewy star of eve to hail.
It is Marias 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.
