When I see her sitting at the brook,
Knitting her fly nets,
Or on Sundays when for the windows
She picks fresh meadow flowers;
 
When I see her walking to the garden
With a little basket in her hand,
Looking for the first berries
Upon the thorny greenery:
 
Then I feel too confined in my mill,
All the walls seem to be closing in on me,
And I would quickly like to be a fisherman,
A hunter or a gardener.
 
And the merry whistling of the millstones,
And the roar of the waterwheel,
And the bustling rattle of the millworks,
Almost drive me out the door.
 
But when in a good hour
She approaches the lad, making conversation,
And, as an intelligent child of the house
Casts her eye over everything to see if it is right;
 
And knowledgeably praises one fellow,
That the other might realize
How he could do better,
If he wished to earn her thanks.
 
No one feels himself singled out,
And yet she never misses the mark;
Everyone must say that his feelings have been spared,
And yet she makes no bones about anything.
 
No one wishes she would leave,
Even though she stands there as a mistress,
And almost like the eye of God
Her image is always before us. --
 
Well, thus may the life of the mill
Be well worthy of a song,
And the mill wheels, stones and pounding
Join in as the accompaniment.
 
Everything goes in a beautiful dance
Up and down and in and out:
May God bless my trade
And the house of the good master!