The Woman

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