The American Girl

By A. H. Laidlaw

The maid for man to love,
All other forms above,
Is she whose home adorns the loam of this fair land of mine:
American in sire,
She’s born of love and fire,
And dominates the heart of man as by a right divine.

By rhyming swain pursued,
She meets the puling dude,
Whose hopes to win are centered in his pale Platonic plan;
American in heart,
She spurns his petty part,
Then, speeds him to the army mess to prove himself a man.

With tact burned in the bone,
She stands herself, alone,
The peer of peers of ancient years, for highest functions fit;
American in head
Who woos her, she may wed,
If he hath grace, and wit, and worth, and sense, and soul and grit.

Alive, alert and sweet,
In rounded poise, complete,
Come any day what will or may, she meets the world at par;
American in soul,
She brooks no man’s control,
But brings to one a crystal love as stainless as a star.

Who wins, she weds, retains,
She lives, she loves, she reigns
Through home and hall, and over all the sovereign of the scene;
American in dower,
She knows her native power,
And holds the heart of him she loves, a Woman and a Queen.

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