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. I Gaed a Waefu' Gate Yestreen
2. Blythe Was She
3. Farewell to Ballochmyle
4. Stay My Charmer
5. On a Bank of Flowers

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