THIS is one of Wordsworth's best-known compositions on a Scottish theme (he made several enjoyable excursions north in the course of his long life and wrote sympathetically on what he saw and learned).

from 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

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 tells 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!. . .