My Goddess, Woman.
[John Learmont.—Tune, "The Butcher Boy." Learmont published a volume of Poems at Edinburgh in 1791. He at one time held the situation of head gardener to the Duke of Buccleuch at Langholm Lodge. He died many years ago.]
Of mighty nature's handy-works,
The common or uncommon,
There's nought through a' her limits wide
Can be compared to woman.
The farmer toils, the merchant trokes,
From dawing to the gloamin';
The farmer's pains, the merchant's cares,
Are a' to please thee, woman.
The sailor spreads the daring sail
Through billows chafed and foaming,
For gems, and gold, and jewels rare,
To please thee, lovely woman.
The soldier fights o'er crimson'd fields,
In distant climates roaming;
But lays, wi' pride, his laurels down,
Before thee, conquering woman.
The monarch leaves his golden throne,
With other men in common,
And lays aside his crown', and kneels
A subject to thee, woman.
Though all were mine, e'er man possess'd
Barbarian, Greek, or Roman,
What would earth be, frae east to west,
Without my goddess, woman!