More in the garden grows
than the Wytch knows.

Sell your coat, and buy betony.

No ear hath heard, no tongue can tell,
the virtue of the pimpernel.

Treoil vervain, St. John’s wort, dill,
hinder Wytches of all their will.

When rosemary grows,
the missus is master.

Faerie-folks,
live within old oaks.

Sow fennel,
sow sorrow.

Only the wicked grow parsley.
Plant your sage and rue together,
the sage will grow in any weather.

Snakes will not go
where geraniums grows.
Where the yarrow grows,
there is one who knows.

If ye would herbal magic make.
be sure the spell is rhyme be spake.

Woe to the lad
without a rowan tree god.

Rowan tree and red thread,
put the Wytches to their speed.

Eat an apple going to bed,
make a doctor beg for his bread.

The fair maid who, the first of May
goes to the fields at break of day,
and washes the dew from the hawhorn tree
will ever after handsome be.

Plant not a cypress vine,
unless it brings death to thine.

Beware the oak, it draws the stroke.
avoid the ash, it courts the flash.
Creep under the thorn,
it will save you from harm.

An apple a day
keeps the doctor away.

Flowers out of season,
sorrows aplenty without reason.

He would live for aye,
must eat sage in May.

One to rot, one to grow,
One for Pigeon and one for the crows.

St. John’s wort and cyclamen
in your bed-chamber keep,
from evil spells and wytcheries,
to guard you in your sleep.

I borage
give courage.

No mistletoe,
no luck.