O leave novels, ye Mauchline belles,
  Ye're safer at your spinning wheel;
Such witching books, are baited hooks
  For 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 feelin heart but acks 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.