Robert Burns

To Miss Logan

written in 1787

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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