This text comes from The Book of Scottish Song, edited by Alexander Whitelaw, a historical songbook transcribed on Wikisource and reproduced from the pinned revision linked below.
I ha'e lost my love, an' I dinna ken how,
I ha'e lost my love, an' I carena;
For laith will I be just to lie down an' dee,
And to sit down and greet wad be bairnly;
But a screed o' ill nature I canna weel help,
At having been guidit unfairly;
An' weel wad I like to gi'e woman a skelp,
An' yerk their sweet haffets fu' yarely.
O! plague on the limmers, sae sly an' demure,
As pawkie as de'ils wi' their smiling;
As fickle as winter in sunshine and shower,
The hearts of a' mankind beguiling;
As sour as December, as soothing as May,
To suit their ain ends never doubt them;
Their ill fau'ts I couldna tell ower in a day,
But their beauty's the warst thing about them!
Ay, that's what sets up the hale warld in a lowe—
Makes kingdoms to rise an' expire;
Man's might is nae mair than a flaughten o' tow,
Opposed to a bleeze o' reid fire!
'Twas woman at first made creation to bend,
And of nature's prime lord made the pillow!
An' 'tis her that will bring this ill warld to an end—
An' that will be seen an' heard tell o'!