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“You can't trust folk songs. They always sneak up on you.”
― Terry Pratchett, Witches Abroad

“They staggered and stumbled, wounded but triumphant, singing the old Welsh folk song “Ar Lan y Môr.â€� And if there was something odd about returning from battle singing about lilies, rosemary, rocks, and—for some reason he’d never fathomed—eggs, of all things, by the sea, well, then the three of them made it sound pretty good and only he and Beauclaire knew Welsh.”
― Patricia Briggs, Fair Game

“And her brother John set her on her horse.'Now you are high and I am low,Give me a kiss before ye go.’She leaned down to give him a kiss,He gave her a deep wound and did not miss.And with a knife as sharp as a dart,Her brother stabbed her to the heart. ”
― Cassandra Clare, Clockwork Prince

“Little of beauty has America given the world save the rude grandeur God himself stamped on her bosom; the human spirit in this new world has expressed itself in vigor and ingenuity rather than in beauty. And so by fateful chance the Negro folk-song—the rhythmic cry of the slave—stands to-day not simply as the sole American music, but as the most beautiful expression of human experience born this side the seas. It has been neglected, it has been, and is, half despised, and above all it has been persistently mistaken and misunderstood; but notwithstanding, it still remains as the singular spiritual heritage of the nation and the greatest gift of the Negro people.”
― W.E.B. Du Bois, The Souls of Black Folk

“But the most radical act, really, is the preservation of memories in the telling itself. A folk story or song is often extremely local—reflected in the many Arabics in this issue. A folk story or song can charm, delight, warn, lament, celebrate—it can do all that and more. With each retelling, it reasserts itself. The name of the original storyteller may be lost, but their love for people and place, their deep humanity, is passed onto new audiences time and again.”
― Ali Al-Jamri, ArabLit Quarterly - Winter 2021 - FOLK

“St Clairs Defeat"

"Was November the fourth in the year of ninety-one
We had a sore engagement near to Fort Jefferson
Sinclair was our commander, which may remembered be
But we left nine hundred soldiers in that Western Territory

At Bunker’s Hill and in Quebec, where many a hero fell
Likewise out on Long Island, it is I the truth can tell
But such a dreadful carnage, never did I see
As happened all out on the plains, near the River St. Marie

Our militia was attacked, just as the day did break
And soon were overpowered, and forced into retreat
They killed major Ouldham, and major Briggs likewise
While horrid yells of anguished souls resounded through the skies

Major Butler he was wounded the very second fire
His manly bosom swelled with rage they forced him to retire
Like one distracted he appeared, when thus exclaim-ed he
Ye hounds of Hell shall all be slain but what revenged I’ll be

We had not very long been broke, when General Butler fell
He cries my boys I’m wounded, pray take me off this field
My word says he, what shall we do, we’re wounded every man
Go charge your valiant heros and beat them if you can

He leaned his back against a tree, and there resigned his breath
And like a valiant soldier, sunk into the arms of death
When blessed angels did await, his spirit to convey
Into celestial fields, he did quickly bend his way

We charged again and took our ground, which did our hearts elate
But there we did not tarry long, they soon made us retreat
They killed our major Ferguson, which caused his men to cry
Stand to your guns says valiant Ford, we’ll fight until we die

Our cannon balls exhausted, artillery men all slain
Our musketeers and riflemen, their fire they did sustain
Three hours more we fought like men, and they were forced to yield
While three hundred bloody warriors lay stretched across the filed

Says colonel Gibson to his men, my boys be not dismayed
I’m sure that true Virginians were never yet afraid
Ten thousand deaths I’d rather die, than they should gain this field
With that he got a fatal shot, causing him to yield

Says major Clark, my heros, we can no longer stand
We shall strive to form in order, and retreat the best we can
The word retreat being passed around, they raised a dreadful cry
Then helter skelter through the woods like wolves and sheep they fly

We left the wounded on the field, O heavens what a shock!
And many bones were shattered, and strewn across the rock
With scalping knives and tomahawks, they robbed some of their breath
While raging flames of torment, tortured other men to death

Was November the fourth in the year of ninety-one
We had a sore engagement near to Fort Jefferson
Sinclair was our commander, which may remembered be
But we left nine hundred soldiers in that Western Territory”
― unknown author