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 profoundIs overflowing with the sound.
No Nightingale did ever chauntSo sweetly to reposing bandsOf Travellers in some shady haunt,Among Arabian Sands:No sweeter voice was ever heardIn spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,Breaking the silence of the seasAmong the farthest Hebrides.
Will no one tell me what she sings?Perhaps the plaintive numbers flowFor 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 sungAs 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.
