The careless lad went through the wood,
Leaped the retarding gate,
And whistled thrice unto his dog,
Who strayed behind so late.
And then he turned him to the north,
To find the trodden way,
And there he saw a pretty child
Who on his path did play.
‘Come hither now, my little maid,
Come hither now to me,
And tell me of a fair young girl
Called Mary Margarie.’
‘Oh, would you seek poor Margarie,’
The little maid replied.
She took him by the strong right hand,
And hurried by his side.
The careless lad he turned him east,
And then he turned him west,
Until he passed a withered crone,
Who beat upon her breast.

‘Why do you weep, you ancient one,
Why do you weep and sigh?’
‘'Tis for poor maiden Margarie,
Who now is like to die.’
The careless lad sang up the hill,
And then he whistled down,
And there he passed a laden man
Who hurried from the town.
‘Where do you take so great a load,
That makes you groan in pain?’
‘A gift for poor maid Margarie,
To make her smile again.’
The careless lad went through the mead
With laughter loud and sweet,
And there he saw a shining stream
That trickled by his feet.
‘Now tell to me, my pretty child,
That at my side doth run,
What makes this little stream to go
Where never there was one?’
‘Maid Margarie doth lie all day,
She neither laughs nor cries.
Here flow her mother's tears,’ she said,
‘That fall from her sad eyes.’

The careless lad he leaped the stream,
And danced across the mead,
And lone he left the pretty child,
Who could not dare his speed,
And when he reached the lonely cot,
Where Margarie did dwell,
He boldly pulled upon the latch,
And struck the white lintel.
And thrice his careless shoulder pushed
Upon the oaken door.
‘Now, what is this that holds so strong,
That never held before?’
‘Pale Mary Margarie doth lie
Beneath some fairy charm.
It is her father's heart that holds
To keep her safe from harm.’
The careless lad he laughed full long,
Full loud and long laughed he.
‘What pother is all this,’ he said,
‘Where need no pother be.’
And then he turned him to the south,
And then he turned him east,
And thrice he whistled to his dog,
To chide the lagging beast.

And thrice he whistled to his dog,
And once to Margarie;
Swift rose she from her snow-white bed,
Where all alone lay she.
She sprang from off her narrow couch,
All laughing in her glee,
And pushed upon the oaken door,
That swung to set her free.
The careless lad went through the wood,
And leaped the moss-grown gate,
And thrice he whistled to the thrush
Who sung beside his mate.
And thrice he whistled to his dog,
A laggard beast was he.
And once he whistled low and sweet
To Mary Margarie.
She stepped across the little stream
That through the mead did wind,
And followed close the careless lad,
Who never looked behind.