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Poem by Robert Burns

To Miss Logan, with Beatties Poems, for a New Years 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 Edwins simple tale.

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


                      Robert Burns

Robert Burns's other poems:
  1. Canst Thou Leave Me Thus?
  2. The Heather Was Blooming
  3. Ye Sons of Old Killie
  4. Im Owre Young To Marry Yet
  5. Amang The Trees

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