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 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.
"The Solitary Reaper" opens with the speaker directing our attention to a solitary reaper
(someone who cuts down crops—like corn or rye—by hand).
She's singing in a field somewhere. She's a highland lass, and she's singing while she works.
It's kind of a sad song, but it's definitely more thrilling than a cuckoo's song in the Hebrides (sure, what isn't?)
and different than anything you might hear from a nightingale.
The speaker loves the song, but he can't understand any of it.
He wonders if she's singing about old battles and other sad stuff from forever ago,
or if she's singing about something more humble. Either way, he notes that she's singing as if her song will never end.
He watches, enraptured, not moving at all. At the end he quietly walks away,
keeping the woman's music in his heart for a long time after.
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