Glen Collection of printed music > Printed text > Banquet of Euphrosyne

93
A new sprung race o' motley kind,
Would now their welcome pay ;
Wha shudder'd at my gothic wa's,
And wished my groves away ;
Cut, cut, they cried, yon gloomy trees 5
Lay low yon mournfu' pine !
Ah no ! your fathers' names grow there-
Memorials o' lang syne.
BANKS OF CREE.
(burns.)
Here is the glen, and here the bower,
All underneath the birchen shade j
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 CreSa