OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# The Book of Scottish Song/Kirk wad let me be

Kirk wad let me be.
["This ancient ditty," says Mr. Chambers, "is said to have been composed, under very peculiar circumstances, by a non-conforming clergyman of the time of Charles II. While under hiding for religion's sake, he had the misfortune to be seized by a party of the troops which were then employed to scour the south and west of Scotland in search of the broken Covenanters. They were not exactly sure of his person, for he appeared to their eyes more like a beggar than any thing else; but, from some suspicious circumstances, they were disposed, at least, to detain him till they should ascertain his real character. The unhappy man then condescended to an artifice, for the purpose of extricating himself. He forthwith assumed a fantastic levity of manners—fell a-capering and dancing—and, finally, sung the two following stanzas, which he composed on the spur of the moment. Such was the gloss he thus gave to his character, and so much were the soldiers delighted with his song, that, swearing he was an honest fellow, and could not possibly belong to the crew they were in search of, they permitted him to depart. The song appeared in Herd's Collection, 1776."]
I am a puir silly auld man, And hirplin' ower a tree; Yet fain, fain kiss wad I, Gin the kirk wad let me be.
Gin a' my duds were aff, And guid haill claes put on, O, I could kiss a young lass As weel as ony man.
# The Book of Scottish Song/Kate of Aberdeen

Kate of Aberdeen.
["Kate of Aberdeen," says Burns, "is, I believe, the work of poor Cunningham the player; of whom the following anecdote, though told before, deserves a recital. A fat dignitary of the church coming past Cunningham one Sunday, as the poor poet was busy plying a fishing-rod in some stream near Durham, his native county, his reverence reprimanded Cunningham very severely for such an occupation on such a day. The poor poet, with that inoffensive gentleness of manners which was his peculiar characteristic, replied, that he hoped God and his reverence would forgive his seeming profanity of that sacred day, 'as he had no dinner to eat, but what lay at the bottom of that pool!' This, Mr. Woods, the player, who knew Cunningham well, and esteemed him much, assured me was true." John Cunningham was a descendant of the Cunninghams of Euterkine in Ayrshire, and was born in Dublin (not Durham, as Burns has it,) in 1729. His father was an extensive wine-merchant in the Irish capital, but early in life, he abandoned the parental roof, and took to the stage. He was long a performer in the Edinburgh Theatre, under the management of Mr. Digges. Latterly, he was engaged at the theatre in Newcastle, where he died in the year 1773. He was the author of various poetical pieces, and of a drama called "Love in a mist." His "Kate of Aberdeen" appears in the "London Songster," 1767, and was set to music by Jonathan Battishill. It was for several seasons popular at Vauxhall Gardens.]
The silver moon's enamour'd beam Steals softly through the night, To wanton with the winding stream, And kiss reflected light. To beds of state go, balmy sleep, ('Tis where you've seldom been,) May's vigils while the shepherds keep With Kate of Aberdeen.
Upon the green the virgins wait, In rosy chaplets gay, Till morn unbar her golden gate, And give the promised May. Methinks I hear the maids declare, The promised May, when seen, Not half so fragrant or so fair As Kate of Aberdeen.
Strike up the tabor's boldest notes, We'll rouse the nodding grove; The nested birds shall raise their throats, And hail the maid I love: And see the matin lark mistakes, He quits the tufted green; Fond bird! 'tis not the morning breaks— 'Tis Kate of Aberdeen.
Now lightsome o'er the level mead, Where midnight fairies rove, Like them the jocund dance we'll lead, Or tune the reed to love: For see the rosy May draws nigh, She claims a virgin queen; And hark, the happy shepherd's cry, 'Tis Kate of Aberdeen.
# The Book of Scottish Song/Killiecrankie

Killiecrankie.
I.
[Killiecrankie is a pass in the North Highlands, where, on the 27th July, 1689, a battle was fought between the forces of king William the third, under general Mackay, and the Highland clans who adhered to king James, under viscount Dundee (Graham of Claverhouse.) The Highlanders were victorious, but Claverhouse was slain, and his death prevented them from taking advantage of their victory.]
Clavers and his Highlandmen Came down upon the raw, man; Who, being stout, gpve mony a shout; The lads began to claw, then. Wi' sword and targe into their hand, Wi' which they were na slaw, man; Wi' mony a fearfu' heavy sigh, The lads began to claw, then.
Ower bush, ower bank, ower ditch, ower stank, She flang amang them a', man; The butter-box gat mony knocks; Their riggings paid for a', then. They got their paiks wi' sudden straiks, Which, to their grief they saw, man; Wi' clinkum-clankum ower their crowns, The lads began to fa', then.
Her leap'd about, her skipp'd about, And flang amang them a', man; The English blades got broken heads, Their crowns were cleaved in twa, then; The durk and dour made their last hour, And proved their final fa', man; They thocht the devil had been there, That play'd them sic a pa', man.
The Solemn League and Covenant Cam' whigging up the hill, man; Thocht Highland trews durst not refuse For to subscribe their bill, then: In Willie's name, they thocht nae ane Durst stop their course at a', man; But her-nain-sell, wi' mony a knock, Cried, Furich, Whigs, awa', man.
Sir Evan Dhu, and his men true, Cam' linking up the brink, man; The Hoggan Dutch, they feared such, They bred a horrid stink, then. The true Maclean, and his fierce men, Cam' in amang them a', man; Nane durst withstand his heavy hand; A' fled and ran awa', then.
Och on a righ! och on a righ! Why should she lose king Shames, man? Och rig in di! och rig in di! She shall break a' her banes, then; With furichinich, and stay a while, And speak a word or twa, man; She's gi'e ye a straik out ower the neck, Before ye win awa', then.
Oh, fle for shame, ye're three for ane! Her-nain-sell's won the day, man. King Shames' red-coats should be hung up, Because they ran awa', then. Had they bent their bows like Highland trews, And made as lang a stay, man, They'd saved their king, that saered thing, And Willie 'd run awa', then.
II.
[This is a fragment of an old song furbished up by Burns for Johnson's Museum.]
Wherr ha'e ye been sae braw, lad? Where ha'e ye been sae brankie, O? Where ha'e ye been sae braw, lad? Cam' ye by Killiecrankie, O? An ye had been where I ha'e been, Ye wadna been sae cantie, O, An ye had seen what I ha'e seen On the braes o' Killiecrankie, O.
I've faught at land, I've faught at sea; At hame I faught my auntie, O; But I met the deevil and Dundee, On the braes o' Killiecrankie, O!
The bauld Pitcur fell in a fur, And Claverse gat a clankie, O; Or I had fed an Athole gled, On the braes o' Killiecrankie O.
# Syria: A Short History

Published 1959; copyright not renewed.
SYRIA
A SHORT HISTORY Being a condensation of the author's 'History of Syria including Lebanon and Palestine'
BY PHILIP K. HITTI
Professor Emeritus of Semitic Literature on the William and Annie S. Paton Foundation Princeton University
New York THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 1959
PREFACE
Ever since the publication of History of Syria including Lebanon and Palestine (1951) the author has entertained the hope of compressing it into a small volume, minus footnotes and other critical apparatus, which would appeal to a wider and more varied audience. It would bear the same relation to the larger volume that the author's The Arabs: A Short History bears to History of the Arabs. But the present heightened interest in Syria and the Syrians and the curiosity aroused about what is happening there, together with its setting and background, called for immediate action which I found myself unable to undertake because of prior commitments. Hence I sought and received the co-operation of my former pupil and colleague, Harry W. Hazard. Dr. Hazard has produced a work worthy of his scholarship and, we trust, adequately satisfying to the needs of the student and the intelligent layman. Three of the maps were newly sketched by him.
The last chapter in the larger volume, dealing with the contemporary scene, has been expanded by the author into four chapters.
P. K. H.
March 1958 ​
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was legally published within the United States (or the United Nations Headquarters in New York subject to Section 7 of the United States Headquarters Agreement) before 1964, and copyright was not renewed.
* For Class A renewal records (books only) published between 1923 and 1963, check the Stanford University Copyright Renewal Database.
* For other renewal records of publications between 1922–1950, see the University of Pennsylvania copyright records.
* For all records since 1978, search the U.S. Copyright Office records.
Works published in 1959 could have had their copyright renewed in 1986 or 1987, i.e. between January 1st of the 27th year after publication or registration and December 31st of the 28th year. As this work's copyright was not renewed, it entered the public domain on January 1st, 1988.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1978, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 45 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
It is imperative that contributors ascertain that there is no evidence of a copyright renewal before using this license. Failure to do so will result in the deletion of the work as a copyright violation.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# The Book of Scottish Song/The Joyfu' Widower

The Joyfu’ Widower.
[Written by Burns, for Johnson's Museum, to the tune of "Maggie Lauder."]
I married with a scolding wife, The fourteenth of November; She made me weary of my life, By one unruly member. Long did I bear the heavy yoke, And many griefs attended; But, to my comfort be it spoke, Now, now her life is ended.
We lived full one-and-twenty years, A man and wife together; At length from me her course she steer'd, And gone I know not whither: Would I could guess, I do profess, I speak, and do not flatter, Of all the women in the world, I never could come at her.
Her body is bestowed well, A handsome grave does hide her; But sure her soul is not in hell, The deil could ne'er abide her. I rather think she is aloft, And imitating thunder; For why,—methinks I hear her voice Tearing the clouds asunder.
# The Book of Scottish Song/The Kiss ahint the Door

The Kiss ahint the Door.
[Thomas C. Latto.—First printed in "Whistlebinkie."]
There's meikle bliss in ae fond kiss, Whyles mair than in a score; But wae betak' the stouin smack I took ahint the door.
"O laddie whisht! for sic a fricht I ne'er was in afore, Fu' brawly did my mither hear The kiss ahint the door." The wa's are thick, ye needna fear, But gin they jeer an' mock, I'll swear it was a startit cork, Or wyte the rusty lock. There's meikle bliss, &c.
We stappit ben, while Maggie's face Was like a lowin' coal; And as for me I could ha'e crept Into a rabbit's hole. The mither lookt, saff's how she lookt! Thae mithers are a bore, An' gleg as ony cat to hear A kiss ahint the door. There's meikle bliss, &c.
The douce gudeman, though he was there, As weel micht been in Rome, For by the fire he fuff'd his pipe, And never fash'd his thoom; But tittrin' in a corner stood The gawky sisters four, A winter's nicht for me they micht Ha'e stood ahint the door. There's meikle bliss, &c. ​"How daur ye tak' sic freedoms here?" The bauld gudewife began, Wi' that a foursome yell gat up, I to my heels an' ran; A besom whiskit by my lug, An' dishclouts half a score, Catch me again, though fidgin' fain, At kissin' 'hint the door. There's meikle bliss, &c.
# The Book of Scottish Song/The Lady of my Heart

The Lady of my Heart.
[William Motherwell.]
The murmur of the merry brook, As, gushingly and free, It wimples, with its sun-bright look, Far down yon shelter'd lea, Humming to every drowsy flower A low quaint lullaby, Speaks to my spirit, at this hour, Of love and thee.
The music of the gay green wood. When every leaf and tree Is coaxed by winds, of gentlest mood To utter harmony; And the small birds, that answer make To the winds' fitful glee, In me most blissful visions wake, Of love and thee.
The rose perks up its blushing cheek, So soon as it can see, Along the eastern hills, one streak Of the sun's majesty: Laden with dewy gems, it gleams A precious freight to me, For each pure drop thereon me seems A type of thee. ​And when abroad in summer morn, I hear the blythe bold bee Winding aloft his tiny horn, (An errant knight perdy,) That winged hunter of rare sweets, O'er many a far country, To me a lay of love repeats, Its subject—thee.
And when, in midnight hour, I note The stars so pensively, In their wild beauty, onward float Through heaven's own silent sea: My heart is in their voyaging To realms where spirits be, But its mate, in such wandering, Is ever thee.
But, oh, the murmur of the brook, The music of the tree; The rose with its sweet shamefaced look, The booming of the bee; The course of each bright voyager, In heaven's unmeasured sea, Would not one heart pulse of me stir, Loved I not thee!
# The Book of Scottish Song/The Humble Beggar

The Humble Beggar.
[This is an old song, although it cannot be traced farther back than to Herd's collection. The tune goes by the same name as the song, and is given in the fifth volume of Johnson's Museum.]
In Scotland there lived a humble beggar, He had neither house, nor hald, nor hame, But he was weel liked by ilka bodie, And they ga'e him sunkets to rax his wame.
A nivefu' of meal, a handfu' of groats, A dadd of bannock, or herring brie, Cauld parradge, or the lickings of plates, Wad mak' him as blythe as a beggar could be.
This beggar he was a humble beggar, The feint a bit of pride had he, He wad a ta'en his a'ms in a bikker, Frae gentleman, or poor bodie.
His wallets ahint and afore did hang, In as good order as wallets could be: And a lang kail-gooly hang down by his side, And a meikle nowt-horn to rout on had he.
It happen'd ill, it happen'd warse, It happen'd sae that he did die; And wha do you think was at his late-wake, But lads and lasses of a high degree. ​Some were blythe and some were sad, And some they play'd at Blind Harrie; But suddenly up-started the auld carle, I redd ye, good folks, tak' tent o' me.
Up gat Kate that sat i' the nook, Vow kimmer, and how do ye? Up he gat, and ca't her limmer, And ruggit and tuggit her cockernonie.
They houkit his grave in Duket's kirk-yard, E'en far frae the companie: But when they were gaun to lay him i' the yird, The feint a dead nor dead was he.
And when they brought him to Duket's kirk-yard, He dunted on the kist, the boards did flee: And when they were gaun to put him i' the yird, In fell the kist, and out lap he.
He cried, I'm cauld, I'm unco cauld; Fu' fast ran the fock, and fu' fast ran he: But he was first hame at his ain ingle side, And he helped to drink his ain dirgie.
# The Book of Scottish Song/The Husband's Song

The Husband's Song.
[William Wilson.]
Wha my kettle now will boil, Wha will cheer me wi' her smi! Wha will lichten a' my toil, When thou art far awa'? ​Wha will meet me on the stair,
Wha will kiss me kindly there,
And lull to rest ilk earthly care,
When thou art far awa'?
When the day is at a close,
Wlia will mak' my wee drap brose,
Snodly mend my holley hose,
When thou art far awa'?
Wha will wi' my failings bear,
Wha my e'enin' psalm will share,
Wha will kneel wi' me in prayer,
When thou art far awa'?
When the nights grow lang and cauld,
And the wind blaws snell and bauld,
Wha her arms around me fauld,
When thou art far awa'?
Wha will trigly mak' my bed,
Draw my nichtcap o'er my head,
And kiss me when I down am laid,
When thou art far awa'?
Nane!—and dowie now I gang
Through the house the hale nicht lang,
Croonin' ower some simple sang
O' her that's far awa'
Now I downa bide to leuk
Ayont the cheerless ingle neuk,
Where aft I read the haly beuk
To her that's far awa'.
Haste, my dearest! haste ye hame,
Come my ain beloved dame!
Ferry ower loch, sea, and stream,
And ne'er gae mair awa'!
# The Book of Scottish Song/The Home of my Fathers

The Home of my Fathers.
Subdued by misfortunes, and bow'd down with pain, I sought on the bosom of peace to recline; I hied to the home of my fathers again, But the home of my fathers no longer was mine!
The look that spoke gladness and welcome was gone; The blaze that shone bright in the hall was no more. A stranger was there with a bosom of stone, And cold was his eye as I enter'd his door.
'Twas his, deaf to pity, to tenderness dead, The fallen to crush, and the humble to spurn; But I staid not his scorn,—from his mansion I fled, And my beating heart vow'd never more to return. When home shall receive me, one home yet I know, O'er its gloomy recess see the pine branches wave; 'Tis the tomb of my fathers!—The world is my foe, And all my inheritance now is a grave.
'Tis the tomb of my fathers, the grey-moisten'd walls Declining to earth, speak emphatic, decay; The gate off its hinges, and half-opening, calls "Approach, most unhappy, thy dwelling of clay." Alas! thou sole dwelling of all I hold dear, How little this meeting once augur'd my breast! From a wand'rer accept, oh, my fathers! this tear; Receive him, the last of your race, to your rest!
# The Book of Scottish Song/The Jilted Nymph

The Jilted Nymph.
[Thomas Campbell.—Air, "Woo'd and married an' a'."]
I'm jilted, forsaken, outwitted; Yet think not I'll whimper or brawl— The lass is alone to be pitied Who ne'er has been courted at all: Never by great or small Woo'd or jilted at all; Oh, how unhappy's the lass Who has never been courted at all!
My brother call'd out the dear faithless; In fits I was ready to fall, Till I found a policeman who, scatheless, Swore them both to the peace at Guildhall; Seized them, and seconds and all— Pistols, powder, and ball; I wish'd him to die my devoted, But not in a duel to sprawl. ​What though at my heart he has tilted, What though I have met with a fall? Better be courted and jilted, Than never be courted at all. Woo'd and jilted and all,— Still I will dance at the ball; And waltz and quadrille with light heart and heel, With proper young men and tall.
But lately I've met with a suitor, Whose heart I have gotten in thrall, And I hope soon to tell you in future That I'm woo'd and married and all; Woo'd and married and all, What greater bliss can befall? And you all shall partake of my bridal cake, When I'm woo'd and married and all.
# The Book of Scottish Song/The Ladies' Evening Song

The Ladies’ Evening Song.
[James Hogg.]
O the glass is no for you, Bonny laddie, O! The glass is no for you, Bonny laddie, O! The glass is no for you, For it dyes your manly brow, An' it fills you roarin' fu', Bonny laddie, O!
Then drive us not away Wi' your drinkin', O! We like your presence ma!r Than you're thinkin' O'. How happy will you be In our blythesome companye, Taking innocence and glee For your drinking, O!
Now your e'en are glancing bright, Bonny laddie, O! Wi' a pure an' joyfu' light, Bonny laddie, O! But at ten o'clock at night, Take a lady's word in plight, We will see another sight, Bonny laddie, O!
There's a right path an' a wrang, Bonny laddie, O! An' you needna argue lang, Bonny laddie, O! For the mair you taste an' see O' our harmless companye, Aye the happier you will be, Bonny laddie, O!
# The Book of Scottish Song/The Hills of the Highlan's

The Hills of the Highlan’s.
[Nicholson.—Tune, "Ewe Buchts, Marion."]
Will ye go to the Highlan's, my Mary, And visit our haughs and our glens? There's beauty 'mang hills o' the Highlan's The braw lawlan' lassie ne'er kens.
'Tis true we've few cowslips or roses, Nae lilies grow wild on the lee; But the heather its sweet scent discloses, And the daisy's as sweet to the e'e.
See yon far heathy hills, whar they're risin', Whose summits are shaded wi' blue; There the fleet mountain roes they are lyin', Or feedin' their fawns, love, for you. ​There the loud roaring floods they are fallin', By crags that are furrow'd and grey; To her young there the eagle is callin', Or gazin' afar for her prey.
Or low, by the birks on the burnie, Whar the goat wi' her younglin's doth rest, There oft I would lead thee my Mary, Whar the blackbird has builded her nest.
Right sweet are our scenes i' the gloamin', Whan the shepherds return frae the hill, Aroun' by the banks o' Loch Lomon', While bagpipes are soundin' sae shrill.
Right sweet is the low-setting sun-beam, On the lake's bosom quiv'rin' seen; But sweeter the smiles o' my Mary, And kinder the blinks o' her een.
Thy looks would gar simmer seem sweeter, An' cheer winter's bare dreary gloom; With thee every joy is completer, While true love around us should bloom.
The south'ren, in a' his politeness, His airs and his grandeur may shine; Our hills boast o' mair true discreetness, An' his love is not equal to mine.
# The Book of Scottish Song/The Ingle Side

The Ingle Side.
[Hugh Ainslie.]
It's rare to see the morning bleeze Like a bonfire frae the sea; It's fair to see the burnie kiss The lip o' the flow'ry lea; An' fine it is in the green hill side, When hums the hinny bee; But rarer, fairer, finer far, Is the ingle side to me.
Glens may be gilt wi' gowans rare, The birds may fill the tree; And haughs ha'e a' the scented ware That simmer's growth can gi'e; But the canty hearth where cronies meet, An' the darling o' our e'e, That mak's to us a warld complete; O the ingle side's for me.
# Tales of Three Cities (Boston: James R. Osgood & Co., 1884)/Lady Barberina

LADY BARBERINA.
* Part 1
** Chapter 1
** Chapter 2
** Chapter 3
* Part 2
** Chapter 4
** Chapter 5
** Chapter 6
# Tales of Three Cities (Boston: James R. Osgood & Co., 1884)/The Impressions of a Cousin

THE IMPRESSIONS OF A COUSIN.
Copyright, 1883 and 1884, By Henry James.
All rights reserved.
University Press: John Wilson and Son, Cambridge.
* Part 1
* Part 2
# The Book of Scottish Song/The Toom Pouch

The Toom Pouch.
[Taken down from the singing of Jamie, a natural who frequents the watering places of Dunblane and Bridge of Allan. We know not who is the author of the song, nor whether it has been before printed.—Air, "The auld mans mare's dead."]
O weary on the toom pouch, It shames us a' the toom pouch; Sic times as we ha'e aften seen, Make mony a waefu' toom pouch.
Of a' the ills in life's career, The want o' bread and beef and beer, The taunt o' men, and women's jeer— The greatest is the toom pouch. O weary on, &c.
An empty purse is slighted sair, Gang ye to market, kirk, or fair, Ye'll no be muckle thought o' there Gin ye gang wi' a toom pouch. O weary on, &c.
An empty purse is ill to wear, An empty rurse is ill to share, E'en lovers' friendship canna bear To hear ought o' a toom pouch. O weary on, &c.
But O, ye lasses blythe and clean, Just let me tell ye as a frien', Whene'er you meet your lads at e'en, Be canny on the toom pouch. O weary on, &c.
For fegs! the times are no the thing To mak' our merry taverns ring; And wha the deil could dance and sing Gin pester'd wi' a toom pouch? O weary on, &c.
Sae dinna ca' your laddie shy, And dinna say he's cauld and dry, And dinna speak o' sweeties.—Fie! Be mindfu' o' the toom pouch. O weary on, &c.
For kind may be his heart and true, And weel and warmly may he lo'e, And fondly kiss your cherry mou', Although he wears a toom pouch. O weary on, &c.
But may be times will mend a wee, When twa may venture to be three; But, gudesake, lasses! ne'er agree To marry wi' a toom pouch. O weary on, &c.