Robert Burns

The Flowery Banks of Cree

HERE is the glen, and here the bower,
  All underneath the birchen shade;
The village-bell has tolled the hour,
  O, what can stay my lovely maid?

’T is not Maria’s whispering call,
  ’T is but the balmy-breathing gale,
Mixed 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 ’t is music and ’t is 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.