An Idler

She cannot wind the distaff,She can nor bake nor brew;Her hands are indeed too daintySuch labors to pursue.

She cares not to follow the harvest,She neither can sow nor glean,But waits for the weary reapersWith cheerful calm serene.

Commanding all to serve her,From service she is free;But, ah, my babe so helplessIs health and wealth to me!