Lone in the wood she sang, the pretty Rose-Marie,
Came to the limpid brook, her picture there saw she;
Loosened her braided hair,
Smiled then as springtime fair:
Why art thou, brook, so glad, and all thy flowers so gay;
Why does the forest bright
Smile as with green delight,
Why is the sky so blue, why do I sing to-day?

Come, said the brook, oh, come, thou pretty Rose-Marie,
Come as the breezes come, that whisper light and free!
Sit here upon the strand,
Lean down and cool thy hand,
Loosen thy shoes and lay thy small blue garters by.
Rest on the birch's root,
Bathe there thy snow-white foot,
Lave thy red cheek. 'T is well. Now, hark to my reply!

This makes me feel so glad, thou pretty Rose-Marie:
I am thy mirror now, and so may look at thee.
Therefore in pure delight
Blooms all the woodland bright:
This day our Rose-Marie is turned of seventeen.
Heaven is blue to-day,
And thou dost sing so gay,
Ay! for a thief of hearts dwells in the forest green.