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

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

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