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, And battles long ago: Or is it some more humble lay, Familiar matter of to-day? Some natural sorrow,loss,or pain, That has been,and may be again? Whate'er the theme,the Maiden sang As if her song could have no ending; I saw her singing at her work, And o'er the sickle bending;- I listen'd,motionless and still; And,as I mounted up the hill, The music in my heart I bore, Long after it was heard no more. It Is a Beauteous Evening,Calm and Free It is a beauteous evening,calm and free, The holy time is quiet as a Nun Breathless with adoration;the broad sun Is sinking down in its tranquility;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, And battles long ago: Or is it some more humble lay, Familiar matter of to-day? Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain, That has been, and may be again? Whate’er the theme, the Maiden sang As if her song could have no ending; I saw her singing at her work, And o’er the sickle bending;— I listen’d, motionless and still; And, as I mounted up the hill, The music in my heart I bore, Long after it was heard no more. It Is a Beauteous Evening, Calm and Free It is a beauteous evening, calm and free, The holy time is quiet as a Nun Breathless with adoration; the broad sun Is sinking down in its tranquility;