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. Tam Glen
2. Lines Supposed to Have Been Written by Burns, and Forwarded to John Rankine, Ayrshire, Immediately after the Poet’s Decease
3. On Commissary Goldie’s Brains
4. Verses Addressed to J. Rankine
5. Impromptu on an Innkeeper Named Bacon, Who Intruded Himself Into All Companies

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