OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Somebody (anonymous)

Anonymous poem/song, beginning "Were I oblig’d to beg my bread"
* "Somebody" in The Flowers of the Forest (1810s)
* "Somebody" in Modern Beau (1810s)
# Someday Baby Blues

"Someday Baby Blues", also known as "Worried Life Blues" or "Trouble No More", is a traditional blues song first recorded by "Sleepy John" Estes in 1935, but has been covered many times since.
I don't care how long you're gone, I don't care how long you stay. But that good kind treatment, Bring you back home someday. Someday baby, You ain't going to worry my mind any more.
I hate that wind, That old chilly breeze. Come blowing through Your BVDs. But someday baby, You ain't going to worry my mind any more.
If you don't quit bettin', Boy those dice won't pay. It's gonna send you home. On your yas-yas-yas. But someday baby, You ain't going to worry my life any more.
It ain't but the one thing, That give a man the blues. He ain't got no bottom In his last pair of shoes. But someday baby, You ain't worry my mind any more.
I tell all the people, In your neighborhood. You're a no-good woman, You don't mean no good. But someday baby, You ain't going to worry for poor John's mind any more.

## Licensing

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 1935 could have had their copyright renewed in 1962 or 1963, 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, 1964.
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
# Someone's Waiting For Me (We'll Wait, Wait, Wait)

* information about this edition.
* sister projects: Wikidata item.

## Verse 1

Henpeck O'Johnson and Henpeck O'Day Made an appointment with Molly and May, Soon they wee calling their wives on the phone, "Don't cook my supper for I won't be home." Then in a taxi to some swell café They rode away to meet Molly and May, Waited and waited, grew intoxicated, O'Johnson then sang to o'Day:

## Chorus

"Someone's waiting for me, Someone's waiting for you, I'm waiting and you're waiting And Wifey's waiting too. Are we downhearted? No! We have plenty of dough. What? Ho home to Wifey? Well, not on your lifey-- We'll wait, wait, wait."

## Verse 2

While they were waiting a waiter named Binks Waited for tips while they waited for drinks, Manhattan cocktails and highballs galore, Three extra waiters were put on the floor. Music was playing, "I'm Coming Home Soon." O'Day was praying for some other tune, Hours were flying, still they kept on buying, O'Johnson was crying again:

## Chorus

"Someone's waiting for me, Someone's waiting for you, I'm waiting and you're waiting And Wifey's waiting too. Are we downhearted? No! We have plenty of dough. What? Ho home to Wifey? Well, not on your lifey-- We'll wait, wait, wait."

## Verse 3

Mrs. O'Johnson and Mrs. O'Day Happened to stroll in the same swell café, They had brown tired of waiting at home, Went out and left both their falts all alone. Soon from a corner a voice hollered loud, "Give us another and treat the whole crowd." Just then somebody broke up the whole party 'Twas Molly, and sweet little May.

## Chorus

"Someone's waiting for me, Someone's waiting for you, I'm waiting and you're waiting And Wifey's waiting too. Are we downhearted? No! We have plenty of dough. What? Ho home to Wifey? Well, not on your lifey-- We'll wait, wait, wait."
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1989, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 34 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.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# Somers v. Balabrega

* related portals: Supreme Court of the United States.
* sister projects: Wikidata item.
SOMERS verʃus BALABREGA.
I
# Short Stories from the Balkans/Vrchlický

* related portals: Czech literature.
* related authors: Jaroslav Vrchlický.
YAROSLAV VRCHLICKÝ
VRCHLICKÝ
Yaroslav Vrchlický—whose real name is Emil Frida—is perhaps the most important personality in modern Bohemian literature. He was born in Laun in 1853, and was carefully educated in several different preparatory schools before going to the University of Prague where it was his intention to study theology. He changed his mind however and gave his time to philosophy, languages and literature. In this same university later, he held for many years the professorship of modern literature.
As a writer his productivity has been almost unparalleled, and it has expressed itself for the most part in the domain of poetry. Some thirty volumes of lyric verse have been published by him, and a number of volumes of poetic plays. It is as lyric poet that he ranks highest, being gifted with imagination and a sensitive ear.
In his position as professor of literature, he wished to introduce to his countrymen, and make easily accessible, in cheap editions, as many foreign writers as possible. He not only urged others to help do this, but he set an example himself. The leading poets of Germany, France, Italy and Spain, in their entirety, Yaroslav Vrchlický gave to his nation, in wonderfully fluent and sympathetic renderings. His translations are among the great monuments of modern scholarship.
His work in prose is less considerable, both as original writer and translator. His best prose works are “Bits of Colored Glass” and “Ironic and Sentimental Tales.”
The story, “Brother Cœlestin,” which we give, is from one of these collections and it is his most celebrated story. It would be difficult to underestimate the influence of Vrchlický upon the youth of Bohemia who have for so many years come under his inspired tutelage. Yaroslav Vrchlický died in 1912.
None of the prose stories of Vrchlický have been published in English except one, and of his verse we have seen but one small fragment, the exact name of which we do not remember, but it was written to the beautiful hands of a woman.
# Short Stories from the Balkans/Svatopluk Čech

Among his books of verse are—“The Smith of Lešetin,” “In Shadow of the Linden”; many delightful ballades—such as “The Lark”—have been written by him.
We include perhaps his best short story—“The Journey.” None of the verse of Čech has appeared in English. Of his prose we know of only one other translated story.
# Short Titles Act 1892

Source: The Public General Acts passed in the fifty-fifth and fifty-sixth years of the reign of Her Majesty Queen Victoria. HMSO. London. 1892. Pages 12 to 118.
An Act to facilitate the Citation of sundry Acts of Parliament. [20th May 1892.]
BE it enacted by the Queen's most Excellent Majesty, by and with the advice and consent of the Lords Spiritual and Temporal, and Commons, in this present Parliament assembled, and by the authority of the same, as follows:
Citation of Acts in Schedule.
1.-(1.) Each of the Acts mentioned in the First Schedule to this Act may, without prejudice to any other mode of citation, be cited by the short title therein mentioned in that behalf. (2.) Each of the groups of Acts mentioned in the Second Schedule to this Act may, without prejudice to any other mode of citation, be cited by the collective title therein mentioned in that behalf. (3.) If any Act passed after this Act is directed, as to the whole or any part thereof, to be read with any of the groups of Acts mentioned in the Second Schedule to this Act, that group shall be construed as including that Act or part, and, if the collective title of the group states the first and last years of the group, the year in which that Act is passed shall be substituted for the last year of the group, and so on as often as a subsequent Act or part is added to the group.
Short title.
2. This Act may be cited as the Short Titles Act, 1892.
This work is in the public domain worldwide because it was created by a public body of the United Kingdom with Crown Status and commercially published before 1974.
See Crown copyright artistic works, Crown copyright non-artistic works and List of Public Bodies with Crown Status.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# Songs

* Search for titles containing or beginning with: "Songs."
* sister projects: Wikidata item.
This is a disambiguation page. It lists works that share the same title. If an article link referred you here, please consider editing it to point directly to the intended page.
* Songs, collection of poems by Anna Laetitia Barbauld
* Songs, collection of poems by Jean-Baptiste Clément
* Songs, a poem by Richard Watson Gilder
* Songs, a poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
# Songs, Legends, and Ballads

SONGS,
LEGENDS AND BALLADS.
BY
JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY.
Seventh Edition.
BOSTON:
THE PILOT PUBLISHING COMPANY,
1890.
Copyright, 1880,
By John Boyle O'Reilly.
TO
My Dear Wife,
WHOSE RARE AND LOVING JUDGMENT HAS BEEN A STANDARD
I HAVE TRIED TO REACH,
I DEDICATE THIS BOOK.
Songs, Legends, and Ballads.
CONTENTS.
# Songs, Legends, and Ballads/A Kiss

A KISS.
LOVE is a plant with double root,
And of strange, elastic power:
Men's minds are divided in naming the fruit,
But a kiss is only the flower.
# Song of the Worm

THE worm, the rich worm, has a noble domain In the field that is stored with its millions of slain ; The charnel-grounds widen, to me they belong, With the vaults of the sepulchre, sculptured and strong. The tower of ages in fragments is laid, Moss grows on the stones, and I lurk in its shade ; And the hand of the giant and heart of the brave Must turn weak and submit to the worm and the grave.
Daughters of earth, if I happen to meet Your bloom-plucking fingers and sod-treading feet-- Oh ! turn not away with the shriek of disgust From the thing you must mate with in darkness and dust. Your eyes may be flashing in pleasure and pride, 'Neath the crown of a Queen or the wreath of a bride ; Your lips may be fresh and your cheeks may be fair-- Let a few years pass over, and I shall be there.
Cities of splendour, where palace and gate, Where the marble of strength and the purple of state ; Where the mart and arena, the olive and vine, Once flourished in glory ; oh ! are ye not mine ? Go look for famed Carthage, and I shall be found In the desolate ruin and weed-covered mound ; And the slime of my trailing discovers my home, 'Mid the pillars of Tyre and the temples of Rome.
I am sacredly sheltered and daintily fed Where the velvet bedecks, and the white lawn is spread ; I may feast undisturbed, I may dwell and carouse On the sweetest of lips and the smoothest of brows. The voice of the sexton, the chink of the spade, Sound merrily under the willow's dank shade. They are carnival notes, and I travel with glee To learn what the churchyard has given to me.
Oh ! the worm, the rich worm, has a noble domain, For where monarchs are voiceless I revel and reign ; I delve at my ease and regale where I may ; None dispute with the worm in his will or his way. The high and the bright for my feasting must fall-- Youth, Beauty, and Manhood, I prey on ye all : The Prince and the peasant, the despot and slave ; All, all must bow down to the worm and the grave.
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# Song to Oblivion

1912.
Art thou more fair For all the beauty gathered up in thee, As gold and gems within some lightless sea? For light of flowers, and bloom of tinted air, Art thou more fair?
Art thou more strong For powers that turn to thee as unto sleep? For world and star that find thy ways more deep Than light may tread, too wearisome for song. Art thou more strong?
Nay! thou art bare For power and beauty on thine impotence Bestowed by fruitful Time's magnificence; For fruit of all things strong, and bloom of fair, Thou art still bare.
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1961, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 62 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.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# Song to the Evening Star

* "Song: To the Evening Star" in The poetical works of Thomas Campbell (1837)
* "The Evening Star" in The Book of Scottish Song (1843), edited by Alexander Whitelaw
# Songs, Legends, and Ballads/A Seed

A SEED.
A KINDLY act is a kernel sown,
That will grow to a goodly tree,
Shedding its fruit when time has flown
Down the gulf of eternity.
# Songs, Legends, and Ballads/At Best

AT BEST.
THE faithful helm commands the keel.
From port to port fair breezes blow;
But the ship must sail the convex sea,
Nor may she straighter go.
So, man to man; in fair accord,
On thought and will, the winds may wait;
But the world will bend the passing word,
Though its shortest course be straight.
From soul to soul the shortest line
At best will bended be:
The ship that holds the straightest course
Still sails the convex sea.
# The "Bab" Ballads/Thomas Winterbottom Hance

THOMAS WINTERBOTTOM HANCE
IN all the towns and cities fair
 On Merry England's broad expanse,
No swordsman ever could compare
With Thomas Winterbottom Hance.
The dauntless lad could fairly hew
A silken handkerchief in twain,
Divide a leg of mutton too—
And this without unwholesome strain.
On whole half-sheep, with cunning trick,
His sabre sometimes he'd employ—
No bar of lead, however thick,
Had terrors for the stalwart boy.
At Dover daily he'd prepare
To hew and slash, behind, before—
Which aggravated Monsieur Pierre,
Who watched him from the Calais shore.
It caused good Pierre to swear and dance,
The sight annoyed and vexed him so;
He was the bravest man in France—
He said so, and he ought to know.
"Regardez, donc, ce cochon gros—
Ce polisson! Oh, sacré bleu!
Son sabre, son plomb, et ses gigots!
Comme cela m'ennuye, enfin, mon Dieu!   "Il sait que les foulards de soie
Give no retaliating whack—
Les gigots morts n'ont pas de quoi—
Le plomb don't ever hit you back."   But every day the headstrong lad
Cut lead and mutton more and more;
And every day, poor Pierre, half mad,
Shrieked loud defiance from his shore.   Hance had a mother, poor and old,
A simple, harmless, village dame,
Who crowed and clapped as people told
Of Winterbottom's rising fame.
She said, "I'll be upon the spot
To see my Tommy's sabre-play;"
And so she left her leafy cot,
And walked to Dover in a day.   Pierre had a doting mother, who
Had heard of his defiant rage:
His ma was nearly ninety-two.
And rather dressy for her age.
At Hance's doings every morn,
With sheer delight his mother cried;
And Monsieur Pierre's contemptuous scorn
Filled his mamma with proper pride.
But Hance's powers began to fail—
His constitution was not strong—
And Pierre, who once was stout and hale,
Grew thin from shouting all day long.
Their mothers saw them pale and wan,
Maternal anguish tore each breast,
And so they met to find a plan
To set their offsprings' minds at rest.
Said Mrs. Hance, "Of course I shrinks
From bloodshed, ma'am, as you're aware,
But still they'd better meet, I thinks."
"Assurément!" said Madame Pierre.
A sunny spot in sunny France
Was hit upon for this affair;
The ground was picked by Mrs. Hance,
The stakes were pitched by Madame Pierre.
Said Mrs. H., "Your work you see—
Go in, my noble boy, and win."
"En garde, mon fils!" said Madame P.
"Allons!" "Go on!" "En garde!" "Begin!"
(The mothers were of decent size,
Though not particularly tall;
But in the sketch that meets your eyes
I've been obliged to draw them small.)
Loud sneered the doughty man of France,
"Ho! ho! Ho! ho! Ha! ha! Ha! ha!"
"The French for 'Pish!'" said Thomas Hance.
Said Pierre, "L'Anglais, Monsieur, pour 'Bah.'"   Said Mrs. H., "Come, one! two! three!—
We're sittin' here to see all fair;"
"C'est Magnifique!" said Madame P.,
"Mais, parbleu! ce n'est pas la guerre!"
"Je scorn un foe si lache que vous!"
Said Pierre, the doughty son of France.
"I fight not coward foe, like you!"
Said our undaunted Tommy Hance.
"The French for 'Pooh!'" our Tommy cried. "L' Anglais pour 'Va'" the Frenchman crowed, And so with undiminished pride
Each went on his respective road.
# The "Bab" Ballads/Thomson Green and Harriet Hale

THOMSON GREEN AND HARRIET HALE.
To be Sung to the Air of "An 'Orrible Tale."
OH list to this incredible tale
Of Thomson Green and Harriet Hale;
Its truth in one remark you'll sum—
"Twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twum!"
Oh, Thomson Green was an auctioneer,
And made three hundred pounds a year;
And Harriet Hale, most strange to say,
Gave pianoforte lessons at a sovereign a day.
Oh, Thomson Green, I may remark,
Met Harriet Hale in Regent's Park,
Where he, in a casual kind of way,
Spoke of the extraordinary beauty of the day.
They met again, and strange, though true,
He courted her for a month or two,
Then to her pa he said, says he,
"Old man, I love your daughter and your daughter worships me!"
Their names were regularly banned
The wedding day was settled, and,
I've ascertained by dint of search
They were married on the quiet at St. Mary Abbott's Church.
Oh, list to this incredible tale
Of Thomson Green, and Harriet Hale,
Its truth in one remark you'll sum,
"Twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twum!"
That very self-same afternoon
They started on their honeymoon,
And (oh, astonishment!) took flight
To a pretty little cottage close to Shanklin, Isle of Wight.
But now—you'll doubt my word, I know—
In a month they both returned, and lo!
Astounding fact! this happy pair
Took a gentlemanly residence in Canonbury Square!
They led a weird and reckless life,
They dined each day, this man and wife,
(Pray disbelieve it, if you please)
On a joint of meat, a pudding, and a little bit of cheese.
In time came those maternal joys
Which take the form of girls or boys,
And strange to say of each they'd one—
A tiddy iddy daughter, and a tiddy iddy son!
Oh, list to this incredible tale
Of Thomson Green, and Harriet Hale,
Its truth in one remark you'll sum,
"Twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twum!"
My name for truth is gone, I fear,
But, monstrous as it may appear,
They let their drawing-room one day
To an eligible person in the cotton-broking way.
Whenever Thomson Green fell sick
His wife consulted Doctor Crick,
From whom some words like these would come— Fiat mist. sumendum haustus, in a cochleyareum.
For thirty years this curious pair
Hung out in Canonbury Square,
And somehow, wonderful to say,
They loved each other dearly in a quiet sort of way.
Well, Thomson Green fell ill and died;
For just a year his widow cried,
And then her heart she gave away
To the eligible lodger in the cotton-broking way.
Oh, list to this incredible tale
Of Thomson Green, and Harriet Hale,
Its truth in one remark you'll sum,
"Twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twum!"
# The "Bab" Ballads/The Story of Prince Agib

THE STORY OF PRINCE AGIB.
STRIKE the concertina's melancholy string!
Blow the spirit-stirring harp like anything!
Let the piano's martial blast
Rouse the Echoes of the Past,
For of Agib, Prince of Tartary I sing!
Of Agib, who amid Tartaric scenes,
Wrote a lot of ballet-music in his teens:
His gentle spirit rolls
In the melody of souls—
Which is pretty, but I don't know what it means.
Of Agib, who could readily, at sight,
Strum a march upon the loud Theodolite.
He would diligently play
On the Zoetrope all day,
And blow the gay Pantechnicon all night.
One winter—I am shaky in my dates—
Came two starving Tartar minstrels to his gates,
Oh, Allah be obeyed,
How infernally they played!
I remember that they called themselves the "Oüaits."
Oh! that day of sorrow, misery, and rage,
I shall carry to the Catacombs of Age,
Photographically lined
On the tablet of my mind, When a yesterday has faded from its page!
Alas! Prince Agib went and asked them in;
Gave them beer, and eggs, and sweets, and scent, and tin.
And when (as snobs would say)
They "put it all away,"
He requested them to tune up and begin.
Though its icy horror chill you to the core,
I will tell you what I never told before,
The consequences true
Of that awful interview, For I listened at the keyhole in the door!
They played him a sonata—let me see!
"Medulla oblongata"—key of G.
Then they began to sing
That extremely lovely thing,
"Scherzando! ma non troppo, ppp."   He gave them money, more than they could count,
Scent, from a most ingenious little fount,
More beer, in little kegs,
Many dozen hard-boiled eggs,
And goodies to a fabulous amount.
Now follows the dim horror of my tale,
And I feel I'm growing gradually pale,
For, even at this day, Though its sting has passed away, When I venture to remember it, I quail!
The elder of the brothers gave a squeal,
All-overish it made me for to feel;
"Oh, Prince," he says, says he,
"If a Prince indeed you be,
I've a mystery I'm going to reveal!
"Oh, listen, if you'd shun a horrid death, To what the gent who's speaking to you, saith:
No 'Oüaits' in truth are we,
As you fancy that we be,
For (ter-remble!) I am Aleck—this is Beth!"
Said Agib, "Oh! accursed of your kind,
I have heard that ye are men of evil mind!
Beth gave a dreadful shriek—
But before he'd time to speak
I was mercilessly collared from behind.
In number ten or twelve, or even more,
They fastened me, full length, upon the floor.
On my face extended flat
I was walloped with a cat
For listening at the keyhole of a door.
Oh! the horror of that agonising thrill!
(I can feel the place in frosty weather still).
For a week from ten to four
I was fastened to the floor,
While a mercenary wopped me with a will!
They branded me, and broke me on a wheel,
And they left me in an hospital to heal;
And, upon my solemn word,
I have never never heard
What those Tartars had determined to reveal.
But that day of sorrow, misery, and rage,
I shall carry to the Catacombs of Age.
Photographically lined
On the tablet of my mind,
When a yesterday has faded from its page!