The Solitary Reaper
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:

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,