Poem by Robert Burns

To Miss Logan, with Beattie’s Poems, for a New Year’s Gift

AGAIN the silent wheels of time
  Their annual round have driven,
And you, tho’ scarce in maiden prime,
  Are so much nearer Heaven.

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!

1. Canst Thou Leave Me Thus?
2. The Heather Was Blooming
3. Ye Sons of Old Killie
4. I’m Owre Young To Marry Yet
5. Amang The Trees

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