BEHOLD¹ her, single in the field,

Yon solitary² Highland³ Lass!

Reaping and singing by herself，

Stop here, or gently pass!

Alone she cuts and binds⁴ the grain,

And sings a melancholy⁵ strain;

O listen! for the Vale profound

Is overflowing⁶ with the sound.

No Nightingale did ever chaunt

More welcome notes to weary bands

Of travelers 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 plaintive⁷ numbers flow

For old, unhappy, far-off things,

And battles long ago:

Or is it some more humble⁸ lay,

Familiar matter of to-day?

Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,

That has been, and may be again?

Whate'er the theme, the Maiden⁹

sang

As if her song could have no ending;

I saw her singing at her work,

And o'er the sickle¹⁰ 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.