I 've rock'd me on the giddy mast,
Through seas tempestuous foamin',
I 've braved the toil of mountain storm,
From dawning to the gloamin';
Round the green bosom'd earth, sea-swept,
In search of pleasure roamin',
And found the world a wilderness,
Without thee, lovely woman!
The farmer reaps his golden fields,
The merchant sweeps the ocean;
The soldier's steed, gore-fetlock'd, snorts
Through war-field's wild commotion;
All combat in eternal toil,
Mirk midnight, day, and gloamin',
To pleasure Heaven's divinest gift,
Thee, lovely, conquering woman!
The savage in the desert dark,
The monster's den exploring;
The sceptre-swaying prince, who rules
The nations round adoring;
Nay, even the laurell'd-templed bard
Dew-footed at the gloamin',
Melodious wooes the world's ear,
To please thee, lovely woman!
[10] This song appeared in the _London Magazine_, new edit., No. xxx. It
was addressed to Mrs Pagan of Curriestanes, the poet's sister, who, it
may be remarked, possessed a large share of the family talent. She died
on the 5th February 1854, and her remains rest in the Pagan family's
burying-ground, in Terregles' churchyard.