Behold her, single in the field
Yon solitary. Highland lass.
Reaping and singing by herself;
Stop here, or gently pass!
Alone she cuts and binds the grain,
And sings a melancholy strain;
O listen! For the vale profound
Is overflowing with the sound.
No nightingale did ever chaunt
More welcome notes to weary bands
Of travellers in some shady haunt,
Among Arabian sands:
A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard
In spring-time from the cuckoo-bird,
Breaking the silence of seas
Among the fastest Heariedes.
Will no one tell me what she rings.
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
For old unhappy, far-off things,
And battles long ago:
Or is it some more humble lay,
Familiar matter of today?
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
That has been, and may be again?
What'er the theme, the maiden sang
As if her song could have on ending;
I saw her singing at her work,
And o'er the sickle bending;
I listened, motionless and still,
And, as I mounted us the hill,
The music in my heart I bore,
Long after it was heard no more.
