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 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 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 listen'd, motionless and still; And, as I mounted up the hill, The music in my heart I bore, Long after it was heard no more.