Journal of American Folklore

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American Folk-lore Society, 1920

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Strana 461 - Our souls, whose faculties can comprehend The wondrous architecture of the world, And measure every wandering planet's course, Still climbing after knowledge infinite, And always moving as the restless spheres, Will us to wear ourselves, and never rest, Until we reach the ripest fruit of all, That perfect bliss and sole felicity, The sweet fruition of an earthly crown.
Strana 458 - For fear thou make the golden beard to weep. Fair maid, white and red, Comb me smooth, and stroke my head, And every hair a sheaf shall be, And every sheaf a golden tree.
Strana 457 - GENTLY dip, but not too deep, For fear you make the golden beard to weep. Fair maiden, white and red, Comb me smooth, and stroke my head, And thou shalt have some cockell-bread.
Strana 483 - The housewives tun not work, nor the milk churn ! Writhe children's wrists, and suck their breath in sleep, Get vials of their blood ! and where the sea Casts up his slimy ooze, search for a weed To open locks with,* and to rivet charms, Planted about her in the wicked feat Of all her mischiefs, which are manifold.
Strana 375 - As I was going to St. Ives, I met a man with seven wives, Every wife had seven sacks, Every sack had seven cats, Every cat had seven kits — Kits, cats, sacks, and wives, How many were going to St. Ives?
Strana 514 - I'd die with my hammer in my hand, by God!" I'd die with my hammer in my hand." John Henry won. But he wouldn't rest. He took sick and died soon after that. "John Henry was hammering on the right side, The big steam drill on the left, Before that steam drill could beat him down, He hammered his fool self to death...
Strana 457 - Spread, table, spread, Meat, drink, and bread. Ever may I have What I ever crave. When I am spread, Meat for my black cock, And meat for my red.
Strana 456 - The Life of Merlin, Surnamed Ambrosius. His Prophecies, and Predictions Interpreted; and their truth made good by our English Annals.
Strana 450 - When in one night, ere glimpse of morn, His shadowy flail hath threshed the corn That ten day-labourers could not end; Then lies him down the lubber fiend, And, stretched out all the chimney's length, Basks at the fire his hairy strength, And crop-full out of doors he flings, Ere the first cock his matin rings.