For in this quiet country place, Where a white church spire reared, Nothburga dwelt, a maid of grace Who loved the Lord and feared.
She was a serving little lass, Bound to a farmer stern, Who to and fro all day must pass Her coarse black bread to earn.
She spun and knit the fleecy wool, She bleached the linen white, She drew the water-buckets full, And milked the herd at night.
And more than this, when harvest-tide Turned golden all the plain, She took her sickle, curving wide, And reaped the ripened grain.
All people yielded to the charm Of this meek-serving maid, Save the stern master of the farm, Of whom all stood afraid.
For he was hard to humble folk, And cruel to the poor, A godless man, who evil spoke, A miser of his store.
Now it was on a Saturday Near to the Sabbath time, Which in those ages far away Began at sunset-chime.
Nothburga in the harvest gold Was reaping busily, Although the day was grown so old That dimly could she see.
Close by her cruel master stood, And fearsome was his eye; He glowered at the maiden good, He glowered at the sky.
For many rows lacked reaping, yet The dark was falling fast, And soon the round sun would be set And working time be past.