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:
no sweeter voice was ever 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,for-off things,
and battles long ago:
or is it some humble lay,
familiar matter of today?
some natural sorrow,loss,or pain,
that has been, and may be again!