behold her,single in her 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 over flowing 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 springtime 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 today?
some natural sorrow ,loss,or pain,
that has been and may be again?
