the flowery banks of cree
here is the glen, ahe bower
all underh the bir shade;
the vilge-bell has told the hour,
o what 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 woodrk in the grove,
his little, faithful mate to cheer;
at once 'tis musid 'tis love.
and art thou e! and art thou true!
o wele dear to love and me!
a us all our vows renew,
along the flowery banks of cree.