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　　1787

　　To Miss Logan, With Beattie's Poems, For A New-Year's Gift, Jan. 1, 1787.

　　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. Poems and Songs of Robert Burns