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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 today?
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.
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