To Miss Logan


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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David Hayman

About this work

This is a poem by Robert Burns. It was written in 1787 and is read here by David Hayman.

Themes for this poem

man woman

Selected for 01 January

In a note to accompany the gift of a book, and with emigration to the West Indies much in mind, the poet once again marks time's 'annual round'.

Donny O'Rourke

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