Here is the glen, and here the bowerAll 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.