Of Nature's Work, (I hold it good) Stupenduous or common, There's nought thro' all its limits wide Can be compared to Woman. The ploughman cultivates the field, The mower snods the common, At night they lose their sense of toil Within the arms of Woman. The merchant plods behind the tile, While beaus are busy roaming, The merchant's gain - the beaux-attire Are both to please a Woman. The sailer spreads the daring sail Thro' agry seas a foaming, The jewels - gems of foreign shores He gives to please a Woman. The Heroes fight o'er crimson fields From noonday to the gloaming; Yet all their strength and boast of fame Is conquer'd by a Woman. The states-man plans the mighty scheme - An empire's downfal dooming; Yet all his deep politic aims Have been o'erthrown by Woman. A King doth leave his golden throne, With other men in common, And fling aside his crown and kneels A subject to a Woman. What pity then - when such a power Is centered in no man; That vice should raise her baleful hand And soil the charms of Woman. Of Nature's works, enchanting spread, O'er its extensive common, There's nought at all can bear compare With Virtue in a Woman. If black, brown, fair - 'tis all the same - Death cancels beauties blooming:- But neither time nor grave destroys When Virtue cloathes the Woman.
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Music of Dalkeith Copyright © 2001, Jack Campin