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148. To Miss Logan with Beattie's Poems

 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.

by Robert Burns
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