At least, so your vanity prompts you to reckon;
And ogling and smiling,
Poor victims beguiling,
You whisper and conquer, flirt, flatter, and beckon.
Annie Lyle, Annie Lyle,
It rouses my bile
To see one so lovely descend to such tricks:
Such flirting’s below you—
To people who know you
All feeling it beats, or what Yankees call “licks.”