(1) In the ṭ [edition] it reads “in Qaryah,” and in al-Dāris (vol. I, p. 301) it adds: “so named to distinguish it from Majdal al-Suwayda.” (2) Not present in the ṭ [edition]. (3) The printed version includes a supplementary report from al-Barzali in the biography of Ibn Kathir’s father that is not found in the primary manuscript sources. He explains that it derives from another copy that he was unable to trace. The passage runs as follows: “Shaykhna al-Hāfiẓ ‘Ilm al-Dīn al-Barzalī records in his lexicon, on the authority of what Shams al-Dīn Muḥammad ibn Saʿd al-Maqdisī related to him (its chain of transmission), and from the handwriting of the hadith specialist Shams al-Dīn ibn Saʿd—which I have transcribed—and likewise in al-Barzalī’s own hand in the second volume of Sufun al-Kibār: ‘Amr ibn Kathīr al-Qurashī preached at al-Qaryah—a village in the district of Busra. He was a man of virtue, composing fine verse and memorizing many riddles; he possessed zeal and vigor. I recorded some of his poetry in the presence of our Shaykh Taj al-Dīn al-Fazārī. He died in Jumada I 703 AH at Majdal al-Qaryah in the Busra district. The preacher Shihāb al-Dīn Abū Ḥafṣ ‘Amr ibn Kathīr al-Qurashī recited to us there in mid-Sha‘bān 687 AH: Sleep has fled my eyelids; I spent the night awake— A brother to toil, sworn to passion’s stirring. The Pleiades and stars were still confined, Yet by my yearning I deemed the heavens resting. Prostrate upon the couch of grief and woe, What harm if you had once been wont to me? Love’s hands convulse me with relentless pangs; I see a flame that cools me by its burning. Patience torn when an obstacle drew near; The blaze of passion in my heart kindled. My tears rained down on him, hoping his sigh Might lessen—yet the tears but fueled the embers. So I passed a night of longing, seeing no Ascension now that distance bore its burden. O night, how far its dawn appeared to me Until I fancied it had vanished ever. Love and yearning without bounds of end, A sweet, soft bed of sweetest rest reclining. He has a face like the full moon, beauty graced By locks of jet-black hair in darkest shining. He sways from his lithe waist in measured ease, And brandishes from his eyelids a honed blade. In the blush of his cheeks and the charm of his shoulders, And in the gleam of his teeth, I’m lost in awe. All other beauties shrink before his grace, The Lord of beauty made him solely manifest. When I behold him and tremble at our meeting, A serpent strikes—no tongue or hand is mine. I prostrate in homage, honor, and reverence, Swearing I have become unrivaled in allure. By God, my pagan brother, if he gazed on his beauty, He would embrace Islam out of awe and bear witness.’