Rob of the Bowl: A Legend of St. Inigoe's

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G.P. Putnam, 1854 - Maryland - 432 pages
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Page 156 - Going to the Wars Tell me not, sweet, I am unkind, That from the nunnery Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind To war and arms I fly. True, a new mistress now I chase, The first foe in the field; And with a stronger faith embrace A sword, a horse, a shield. 1 Imprisoned or caged. Yet this inconstancy is such As you too shall adore; I could not love thee, dear, so much, Loved I not honor more.
Page 7 - And desolation saddens all thy green: One only master grasps the whole domain, And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain.
Page 375 - It is our op'ning day. Nor board nor garner own we now, Nor roof nor latched door, Nor kind mate, bound by holy vow To bless a good man's store...
Page 177 - Fellows, to mount a bank. Did your instructor In the dear tongues, never discourse to you Of the Italian mountebanks ? Per.
Page 70 - Which seemly was to see; A hood to that so neat and fine, In colour like the columbine, Ywrought full featously.
Page 135 - ' Bell my wife she loves not strife, Yet she will lead me if she can ; And oft, to live a quiet life...
Page 14 - Furthermore, Kennedy described the roof as having been "capped by a wooden balustraded parapet, terminating, at each extremity, in a scroll like the head of a violin, and, in the middle, sustaining an entablature that rose to a summit on which was mounted a weathercock.
Page 63 - She cast her weeds away, And to the palmy shore she hied, All in her best array. In sea-green silk so neatly clad, She there impatient stood ; The crew with wonder saw the lad Repell the foaming flood.
Page 197 - Some do call me Jack, sweetheart, And some do call me Jille." Witton Gilbert, a village four miles west of Durham, is, throughout the bishopric, pronounced Witton Jilbert. We have also the common name of Giles, always in Scotland pronounced Jill. For Gille, or Juliana, as a female name, we have Fair Gillian of Croyden, and a thousand authorities.
Page 100 - Twas even said the Blasted Oak, Convulsive, heaved a hollow groan : And, to this day, the peasant still, With cautious fear avoids the ground ; In each wild branch a spectre sees, And trembles at each rising sound.

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