O leave novels, ye Mauchline belles,Ye’re safer at your spinning-wheel;Such witching books are baited hooksFor rakish rooks, like Rob Mossgiel;Your fine Tom Jones and Grandisons,They make your youthful fancies reel;They heat your brains, and fire your veins,And then you’re prey for Rob Mossgiel.
Beware a tongue that’s smoothly hung,A heart that warmly seems to feel;That feeling heart but acts a part—’Tis rakish art in Rob Mossgiel.The frank address, the soft caress,Are worse than poisoned darts of steel;The frank address, and politesse,Are all finesse in Rob Mossgiel.