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 the seas
Among the farthest Hebrides➀.
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 to-day?
Some natural sorrow，loss，or pain，
That has been，and may be again?
Whate’er the theme，the Maiden sang
As if her song could have no ending；
I saw her singing at her work，
And o’er the sickle bending；—
I listened，motionless and still；
And，as I mounted up the hill，
The music in my heart I bore，
Long after it was heard no more.