To Miss Logan, with Beattie’s Poems for a New Year's Gift (Poem by Robert Burns)

Old Poem



To Miss Logan, with Beattie’s Poems for a New Year's Gift
By Robert Burns


Again the silent wheels of time
    Their annual round have driv’n,
And you, tho’ scarce in maiden prime,
    Are so much nearer Heav’n.

No gifts have I from Indian coasts
    The infant year to hail:
I send you more than India boasts
    In Edwin’s simple tale.

Our sex with guile and faithless love
    Is charg’d, perhaps, too true;
But may, dear maid, each lover prove
    An Edwin still to you!

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