To Miss Logan with Beattie’s Poems, For a New Year’s Gift, Jan 1, 1787

by untangledwebl


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 mau, dear maid, each lover prove

An Edwin still to you.