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 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 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 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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