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 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 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.