The Solitary¹ Reper

    Behold² Her， single in the field，

    Yon solitary 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 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.