Song - O Leave Novels^[1]

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 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

[1] Burns never published this poem.