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.
More verses by Robert Burns
- Elegy On The Death Of Robert Ruisseaux
- Elegy On Willie Nicol's Mare
- Willie Brew'D A Peck O' Maut
- Impromptu On Dumourier's Desertion Of The French Republican Army
- Epistle To William Simson