Robert Burns Poems

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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 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.

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