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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 chear, 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.