The Siller Gun: A Poem in Five Cantos

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T. Cadell, 1836 - 256 pages
 

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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 xix - Atween the preachings meet wi' me ; Meet wi' me, or, when it's mirk, Convoy me hame frae Logan kirk. I weel may sing, thae days are gane : Frae kirk and fair I come alane, While my dear lad maun face his faes, Far, far frae me and Logan braes.
Page 238 - the most powerful, the most constant, and the most generous of his enemies.
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 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 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 Third, was invariably chosen for that purpose, being his Majesty's birth-day.
Page 203 - I wish I were where Helen lies, For, night and day, on me she cries...
Page 205 - Ah ! what avails it that, amain, 1 clove th' 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 Kirkconnel-Lee ! O ! when I'm sleeping in my grave, And o'er my head the rank weeds wave.
Page 181 - With curls34 on curls, they build her head before, And mount it with a formidable tower. A giantess she seems; but look behind, And then she dwindles to the pigmy kind.
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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