- 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
- So sweetly to reposing bands
- Of Travellers in some shady haunt,
- Among Arabian Sands:
- No sweeter voice was ever heard
- In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,
- Breaking the silence of the seas
- Among the farthest Hebrides.
-
- Will no one tell me what she sings?
- 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!
-
- Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sung
- As if her song could have no ending;
- I saw her singing at her work,
- And o'er the sickle bending;
- I listen'd till I had my fill:
- And, as I mounted up the hill,
- The music in my heart I bore,
- Long after it was heard no more.