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.
Oh, listen for the Vale profound
Is overflowing with the sound.
No nightingale did ever chaunt
So sweetly to reposing 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, 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 till I had my fill ;
And, as I mounted up the hill,
The music in my heart I bore,
Long after it was heard no more.
ROVER, awake! the grey cock crows!
Come, shake your coat and go with me!
High in the east the green hill glows,
And glory crowns our shelt'ring tree.
The sheep expect us at the fold:
My faithful dog, let's haste away,
And in his earliest beams behold,
And hail, the source of cheerful day.
Half his broad orb o'erlooks the hill,
And darting down the valley flies,
At every casement welcome still,
The golden summons of the skies.
Go, fetch my staff; and o'er the dews
Let echo waft thy gladsome voice.
Shall we a cheerful note refuse
When rising morn proclaims "Rejoice”?
THE IDLE SHEPHERD BOYS; OR, DUNGEON-GHYLL
BENEATH a rock, upon the grass,
Two Boys are sitting in the sun;
It seems they have no work to do,
Or that their work is done.
On pipes of sycamore they play
The fragments of a Christmas hymn;
Or with that plant which in our dale
We call stag-horn, or fox's tail,
Their rusty hats they trim:
And thus, as happy as the day,
Those Shepherds wear the time away.
Along the river's stony marge
The sand-lark chaunts a joyous song;
The thrush is busy in the wood,
And carols loud and strong.
A thousand lambs are on the rocks,
All newly born; both earth and sky
Keep jubilee; and more than all,
Those Boys with their green coronal;
They never hear the cry
That plaintive cry! which up the hill
Comes from the depth of Dungeon-Ghyll.
Said Walter, leaping from the ground,
"Down to the stump of yon old yew
We'll for our whistles run a race."
-Away the Shepherds flew.
They leapt--they ran-and when they came
Right opposite to Dungeon-Ghyll,
Seeing that he should lose the prize,
"Stop!" to his comrade Walter cries---
James stopped with no good will:
Said Walter then, "Your task is here,
'T will keep you working half a year.
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