The siller gun, a poem

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Page xviii - Wi' my dear lad, on Logan braes. But wae's my heart! thae days are gane, And fu' o' grief I herd alane, While my dear lad maun face his faes, Far, far frae me and Logan braes. Nae mair, at Logan kirk, will he, Atween the preachings, meet wi' me— Meet wi' me, or when it's mirk, Convoy me hame frae Logan kirk.
Page 238 - the most powerful, the most constant, and the most generous of his enemies.
Page 204 - I WISH I were where Helen lies, For night and day on me she cries, And, like an angel, to the skies Still seems to beckon me ! For me she lived, for me she sigh'd, For me she wish'd to be a bride, For me in life's sweet morn she died On fair...
Page xix - O LOGAN, sweetly didst thou glide That day I was my Willie's bride ; And years sinsyne hae o'er us run, Like Logan to the simmer sun. But now thy flow'ry banks appear Like drumlie winter, dark and drear, While my dear lad maun face his faes, Far, far frae me and Logan Braes. Again the merry month o...
Page 232 - ... of our volunteers on a fire being kindled by mistake at one of the beacons. This letter mentioned that the moment the blaze, which was the signal of invasion, was seen, the mountaineers hastened to their rendezvous, and those of Liddesdale swam the Liddel river to reach it.
Page v - Sixth, that MONARCH having ordained it as a prize to the best marksman among the CORPORATIONS of DUMFRIES. The contest was, by royal authority, licensed to take place every year ; but, in consequence of the trouble and expense attending it, the custom has not been so frequently observed. Whenever the festival was appointed, the fourth of June, during the long reign of George the b Third, was invariably chosen for that purpose, being his Majesty's birth-day.
Page 204 - Where Kirtle waters gently wind, As Helen on my arm reclined, A rival with a ruthless mind Took deadly aim at me. My love, to disappoint the foe, Rush'd in between me and the blow ; And now her corse is lying low, On fair Kirkconnel-Lee!
Page 205 - I clove the assassin's head in twain ? ' No peace of mind, my Helen slain, No resting-place for me: I see her spirit in the air — I hear the shriek of wild despair, When Murder laid her bosom bare On fair Kirkconnell-Lee! Oh ! when I'm sleeping in my grave, And o'er my head the rank weeds wave...
Page 204 - m sleeping in my grave, And o'er my head the rank weeds wave, May He who life and spirit gave Unite my love and me! Then from this world of doubts and sighs, My soul on wings of peace shall rise, And, joining Helen in the skies, Forget Kirkconnel-Lee.
Page 12 - Maist feck, though oil'd to mak them glimmer, Hadna been shot for mony a Simmer ; And Fame, the story-telling kimmer, Jocosely hints That some o

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