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.
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!