OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# The Book of Scottish Song/Tune your Fiddles

Tune your Fiddles.
[Written by the Rev. John Skinner, author of "Tullochgorum," &c., to suit an air composed by William Marshall, butler to the duke of Gordon, and called "The Marquis of Huntly's Reel." Marshall was a distinguished composer of Scottish airs and melodies, and also eminent as a player on the violin. A collection of his tunes, consisting of 176, was published in 1822, which was followed by a supplement containing 74 additional tunes. Every one is familiar with his "Miss Admiral Gordon's Strathspey," to which Burns's "Of a' the airts the wind can blaw" is sung. Marshall was a native of Fochabers, and died so recently as 1633, aged 85.]
Tune your fiddles, tune them sweetly, Play the marquis' reel discreetly, Here we are a band completely Fitted to be jolly. ​Come, my boys, blythe and gawcie, Every youngster choose his lassie, Dance wi' life and be not saucy, Shy nor melancholy. Come, my boys, &c.
Lay aside your sour grimaces, Clouded brows and drumlie faces, Look about and see their Graces, How they smile delighted: Now's the season to be merry, Hang the thoughts of Charon's ferry, Time enough to come camsterry, When we're auld and doited. Now's the season, &c.
Butler, put about the claret, Through is a' divide and share it, Gordon Castle weel can spare it, It has claret plenty: Wine's the true inspiring liquor, Draffy drink may please the vicar, When be grasps the foaming bicker, Vicars are not dainty. Wine's the true inspiring liquor, &c.
We'll extol our noble master, Sprung from many a brave ancestor,— Heaven preserve him from disaster, So we pray in duty. Prosper, too, our pretty duchess, Safe from all distressful touches, Keep her out of Pluto's clutches, Long in health and beauty. Prosper, too, our pretty duchess, &c.
Angels guard their gallant boy, Make him long his father's joy, Sturdy, like the heir of Troy, Stout and brisk and healthy. Pallas grant him every blessing, Wit and strength, and size encreasing, Plutus, what's in thy possessing, Make him rich and wealthy. Pallas grant him every blessing, &c.
Youth, solace him with thy pleasure, In refined and worthy measure: Merit gain him choicest treasure, From the Royal donor: Famous may he be in story, Full of days and full of glory; To the grave, when old and hoary, May he go with honour! Famous may he be in story, &c.
Gordons, join our hearty praises, Honest, though in homely phrases, Love our cheerful spirit raises, Lofty as the lark is: Echo, waft our wishes daily, Through the grove and through the alley Sound o'er every hill and valley, Blessings on our Marquis. Echo, waft our wishes, &c.
# The Book of Scottish Song/Tullochgorum

First printed in the Scots Weekly Magazine for April, 1776
Tullochgorum.
[This "first of songs," (as Burns calls it) was written by the Rev. John Skinner, in the house of a lady named Montgomery, in the town of Ellon, Aberdeenshire, where he happened to be on a visit. The lady is said to have asked for a song after dinner, in order to put a stop to a political dispute, and at the same time to have expressed surprise that the fine old strathspey, called The Reel of Tullochgorum, had no appropriate words to it. On this hint, Mr. Skinner produced the present song, and it was first printed in the Scots Weekly Magazine for April, 1776. Mr. Skinner was for many years pastor of the episcopal chapel at Longside, near Peterhead, Aberdeenshire, and died in 1807, at the advanced age of eighty-six.]
Come, gi'e's a sang, Montgomery cried, And lay your disputes all aside, What signifies't for folks to chide For what's been done before them? Let Whig and Tory all agree, Whig and Tory, Whig and Tory, Let Whig and Tory all agree, To drop their Whig-mig-morum; Let Whig and Tory all agree, To spend the night in mirth and glee, And cheerfu' sing alang wi' me The reel of Tullochgorum.
O, Tullochgorum's my delight, It gars us a' in ane unite, And ony sumph that keeps up spite, In conscience I abhor him. Blythe and merry we's be a', Blythe and merry, blythe and merry, Blythe and merry we's be a'. And mak' a cheerfu' quorum. Blythe and merry we's be a', As lang as we ha'e breath to draw, And dance, till we be like to fa', The reel of Tullochgorum.
There needs na' be sae great a phraise, Wi' dringing dull Italian lays, I wadna gi'e our ain strathspeys, For half a hundred score o' 'em. They're douff and dowie at the best, Douff and dowie, douff and dowie, They're douff and dowie at the best, Wi' a' their variorum. They're douff and dowie at the best, Their allegros, and a' the rest, They canna please a Highland taste, Compar'd wi' Tullochgorum.
Let warldly minds themselves oppress Wi' fears of want, and double cess, And sullen sots themselves distress Wi' keeping up decorum. Shall we sae sour and sulky sit, Sour and sulky, sour and sulky, Shall we sae sour and sulky sit, Like auld Philosophorum? Shall we sae sour and sulky sit, Wi' neither sense, nor mirth, nor wit, Nor ever rise to shake a fit At the reel of Tullochgorum?
May choicest blessings still attend Each honest open-hearted friend, And calm and quiet be his end, And a' that's good watch o'er him! May peace and plenty be his lot, Peace and plenty, peace and plenty, May peace and plenty be his lot, And dainties a great store o' 'em May peace and plenty be his lot, Unstain'd by any vicious blot! And may he never want a groat That's fond of Tullochgorum. ​But for the dirty, fawning fool, Who wants to be oppression's tool, May envy gnaw his rotten soul, And discontent devour him! May dool and sorrow be his chance, Dool and sorrow, dool and sorrow, May dool and sorrow be his chance, And nane say, Wae's me for 'im! May dool and sorrow be his chance, And a' the ills that come frae France, Whae'er he be, that winna dance The reel of Tullochgorum!
# The Book of Scottish Song/Turnimspike

Turnimspike.
[Tune, "Clout the Caudron."—This ludicrous description of a Highlandman's perplexities under the laws against wearing the Highland garb, the innovations of Turnpike roads, &c., is said to have been written by Dougald Graham, bellman in Glasgow, and author of a metrical account of the Rebellion of '45. Dougald was born about the year 1721, and died in 1779. A memoir of him will be found in Chambers's Scottish Biographical Dictionary.]
Hersell pe Highland shentleman, Pe auld as Pothwell Prig, man;
And many alterations seen Amang te Lawland Whig, man, Fa a dra, diddle diddle dee, &c.
First when she to te Lawlands came Nainsell was driving cows, man, There was nae laws atiout him's nerse, About te preeks or trews, man.
Nainsell did wear te philabeg, Te plaid prick'd on her shouder; Te gude claymore hung py her pelt; Her pistol sharged with powder.
But for whereas these cursed preeks, Wherewith her legs pe lockit; Ohon that ere she saw the day! For a' her houghs pe prokit.
Every thing in te Highlands now Pe turn'd to alteration; Te sodger dwall at our door cheek, And tat pe great vexation.
Scotland pe turn'd a Ningland now, The laws pring in te caudger; Nainsell wad dirk him for his deeds, But, oh! she fears te sodger.
Anither law came after tat, Me never saw the like, man, They mak' a lang road on te crund, And ca' him Turnimspike, man;
And wow she be a ponny road, Like Loudon corn riggs, man, Where twa carts may gang on her, And no preak ither's legs, man.
They charge a penny for ilka horse, In troth she'll no be sheaper, For nougat but gaun upon the ground, And they gi'e her a paper.
They take the horse then py te head, And there they make him staud, man; She tell them she had seen the day They had nae sic command, man.
Nae doubt nainsell maun draw her purse; And pay him what him like, man, She'll see a shudgement on his toor, That filtley turnimspike, man.
But she'll awa' to ta Highland hills, Where deil a ane dare turn her, And no come near te turnimspike, Unless it pe to purn her.
# The Book of Scottish Song/Twine weel the plaiden

Twine weel the plaiden.
[This song cannot be traced in any of the earlier collections. It appears, however, in Johnson's Museum, vol. I. 1787. There is a plaintive old air given in Oswald's collection, (1735-42,) wife the title, "The lassie lost her silken snood."]
O, I ha'e lost my silken snood, That tied my hair sae yellow; I've gi'en my heart to the lad I loo'd, He was a gallant fellow. And twine it weel, my bonnie dow, And twine it weel the plaiden; The lassie lost her silken snood, In pa'ing o' the breckan.
He praised my een sae bonnie blue, Sae lily-white my skin, O, And syne he prie'd my bonnie mou", And said it was nae sin, O. And twine it weel, &c.
But he has left the lass he loo'd, His own true love forsaken; Which gars me sair to greet the snood, I lost amang the breckan. And twine it weel, &c.
# The Book of Scottish Song/Todlin' Hame 2

Todlin' Hame.
[Written by Joanna Baillie for George Thomson's collection—Inserted by permission.]
When white was my o'erlay as foam o' the linn, And siller was clinkin' my pouches within; When my lambkins were bleating on meadow and brae; As I gaed to my love in new cleeding sae gay, Kind was she, and my friends were free But poverty parts gude companie.
How swift pass'd the minutes and hours of delight! The piper play'd cheerly, the crusie burn'd bright; And link'd in my hand was the maiden sae dear, As she footed the floor in her holiday gear. Woe is me, and can it then be, That poverty parts sic companie!
We met at the fair, we met at the kirk, We met in the sunshine, and met in the mirk, And the sounds of her voice, and the blinks of her een, The cheering and life of my bosom have been. Leaves frae the tree at Martinmas flee; And poverty parts sweet companie. ​At bridal and infare I've braced me wi' pride; The bruse I ha'e won, and a kiss o' the bride; And loud was the laughter gay fellows among, When I utter'd my banter and chorus'd my song. Dowie to dree are jesting and glee, When poverty parts gude companie.
Wherever I gaed the blythe lasses smiled sweet, And mithers and aunties were mair than discreet, While kebbuck and bicker were set on the board; But now they pass by me, and never a word. So let it be, for the worldly and slie Wi' poverty keep nae companie.
# The Book of Scottish Song/Tweedside 1

Tweedside.
[The beautiful tune of "Tweedside" is of great antiquity, and has even been attributed to David Rizzio, but without any authentic foundation. Gay adopts it as the air of one of his songs in the opera of "Polly," printed in 1729. The old verses to the tune, which are here given, are said to have been written by Lord Yester, afterwards marquis of Tweeddale, who died in 1713, in his 68th year. Lord Yester, according to Mr. Robert Chambers, "was a distinguished statesman in the reigns of William and Anne, and married the only daughter of the duke of Lauderdale, considered the greatest heiress in the kingdom. He was one of the principal instruments in carrying through the Union, being at the head of the party called the Squadrone Volante. Macky, in his curious work of that period, describes him as a great encourager and promoter of trade and the welfare of his country. 'He hath good sense,' he adds, 'is very modest, much a man of honour, and hot when piqued; is highly esteemed in his country, and may make a considerable figure in it now. He is a short brown man, towards sixty years old.' The song must have been written before 1697, when he ceased to be Lord Yester, by succeeding his father. Neidpath Castle, near Peebles, which overhangs the Tweed, must be the locality of the song—that being then the property, and one of the residences, of the Tweeddale family. The song first appeared in Mr. Herd's Collection, 1776."]
When Maggy and I were acquaint, I carried my noddle fu' hie, Nae lintwhite in a' the gay plain, Nae gowdspink sae bonnie as she! I whistled, I piped, and I sang; I woo'd, but I cam' nae great speed; Therefore I maun wander abroad, And lay my banes far frae the Tweed.
To Maggy my love I did tell; My tears did my passion express: Alas! for I lo'ed her ower weel, And the women lo'e sic a man less. Her heart it was frozen and cauld; Her pride had my ruin decreed; Therefore I maun wander abroad, And lay my banes far frae the Tweed.
# The Book of Scottish Song/Tugal M'Taggart

Tugal M'Taggart.
Would you'll knaw me, my name it is Tugal M'Tagger, She'll brought hersel' down frae the braes o' Lochaber, To learn her nainsel to be praw habberdaber, Or fine linen-draber, the tane or the twa.
She'll being a stranger, she'll look very shy-like: She's no weel acquaint wi your laigh kintra dialect; But hoogh! never heed, she's got plenty o' Gaelic— She comes frae ta house at the fit o' Glendoo.
But her kilt she'll exchange for ta praw tandy trowser, An' she'll learn to ta lady to scrap an' to pow, sir, An' say to ta shentlemans. How did you'll do, sir? An' ten she'll forget her poor friens at Glendoo. ​An' when she'll pe spoket ta laigh kintra jabber, She'll gi'e hersel' out for ta laird o' Lochaber, Shust come for amusements to turn habberdaber, For tat will pe prawer tan herding ta cow.
She'll got a big shop, an' she'll turn'd a big dealer; She was caution hersel', for they'll no sought no bailer,
But Tugal M'Tagger hersel' mak's a failure,— They'll call her a bankrumpt, a trade she'll not knew.
They'll called a great meeting, she'll look very quate now. She'll fain win awa', but they'll tell her to wait now; They'll spoket a lang time, 'pout a great estate now; She'll thocht that they'll thocht her the laird o' Glendoo.
They'll wrote a lang while about a trust deeder, She'll no write a word, for hersel' couldna read her, They'll sought compongzition, hough, hough, never heed her,— There's no sic a word 'mang the hills o' Glendoo.
But had she her durk, hersel' would devour them, They'll put her in jail when she'll stood there before them;
But faith she'll got out on a hashimanorum; And now she's as free as the win's on Glendoo.
# The Botany of the Antarctic Voyage/Plate C

Crantzia lineata Nutt.
# The Botany of the Antarctic Voyage/Plate CI

Caudasia daucoides Hook. fil.
# The Booke of Thenseygnementes and Techynge that the Knyght of the Towre made to his Doughters/Chapter 11

HOW YONGE MAYDENS OUGHT NOT TO TORNE THEIR HEEDES LYGHTELY HERE NE THERE.
FTER this, in sayeng to them, Be ye not like ne semblable the tortuse ne to the Crane, whiche torne their visage and the heede aboue their sholders, and wynde their hede here and there as a vane. But haue youre regarde and manere stedfast, lyke as the hare hath, which is a beest that seeth alwey to fore hym, even right forth, withoute tornyng of his hede here ne there. Alwey see that ye be stedfast in lokyng playnly to fore you; and yf ye wylle loke a syde, torne youre vysage and youre body to geder, and so shalle ye hold you in youre estate more ferme & sure. For they be mocqued that so lyghtely cast their sight and hede and torne their vysage here and there.
HOW YONGE MAYDENS OUGHT NOT TO TORNE THEIR HEEDES LYGHTELY HERE NE THERE
# The Booke of Thenseygnementes and Techynge that the Knyght of the Towre made to his Doughters/Chapter 1

HERE FOLOWETH THE BOOK OF THENSYGNEMENS AND TECHYNGES OF THE KNYGHT OF THE TOURE. AND FIRST, HOW GOD OUGHT TO BE HONOURED ABOUE ALL THYNGES.
T is moche fayre and ryght a noble thyng for to see and beholde thauncyent hystoryes whiche haue ben wreton of oure predecessours for to shewe to vs good ensamples and to aduertyse vs how we may see the good dedes that they folowed and teschewe the euyll, as may be sene that they eschewed. Thenne I shalle speke and saye to them thus: My ryght dere doughters, for as moche as I am old, and that I haue sene the world more lenger than ye haue, I shall shewe to yow a partye of the world after my scyence, which is not ouer grete. But the grete loue that j have to yow, and the desyre that I haue that ye torne youre hertes and youre thoughtes to drede god and to serue hym, by whiche ye may gete wele and honoure in this world and in that other. For certeynly al the very wele, honoure, and al thoneste of man and of woman cometh of hym, and of the grace of his hooly spyryte, and also gyueth long lyf and shorte in worldly and erthely thynges, suche as hit plesyth hym, for alle thyng falleth at his playsyre and ordynaunce, and also gyueth for all suche wele and seruyce as is done to hym an honderd fold double. And therfore, my right dere doughters, it is good to serue suche a lord, whiche rewarded an hondred fold double.
# The Booke of Thenseygnementes and Techynge that the Knyght of the Towre made to his Doughters/Chapter 10

HOW GOOD WYMMEN OUGHT TO MAYNTENE THEMSELF CURTOYSLY.
FTER this, my doughters, see ye wel to that ye be curtois and humble. For there is no gretter vertue for to cause yow to have the grace of god and the loue of alle peple than for to be humble and curtoyse. For curtosye ouercometh all them by thensample of the sperhauk. Take a sperhauke ramage, and calle hym curtoysly, and ye shal make hym come frely to yow; ye, fro the tree he shalle come vppon youre fyste. And yf ye be not curtoyse, but rude and cruel, he shal neuer come. Then, syth that curtosye vaynquysshyth a wylde byrde whiche hath in hym no reson, thenne ought she wel refrayne a man and woman moche more, that they be not ne haue the herte orguyllous and fyers. Curtosye is the fyrst waye and the entre of alle frendship and of alle worldly loue, and she that vaynquyssheth hye courages and that amolysshyth thyre and wrathe of euery creature. Therfore, thenne, hit is a fayre thyng to be curtoys. I know a lord in this Countrey, whiche hath goten and conquerd moo knyghtes, squyers, and other peple to serue hym and to doo his playsyrs by his grete curtosye in the tyme that he bare armes, than other dyd for money, eyther for other thynges. And this is my lord of Craon, whiche ought wel to be honoured and to be preysyd for his curtosye aboue all other knyghtes that I know; knowe that he hath goten by his curtosye moche loue and renomme of ryght grete ladyes and also of other, grete and smale. Therfor, my fayre doughters, shewe youre curtosye vnto the mene and smal peple, for to do them honoure, and to speke to them fayre and swetely, and for to answere them curtoysly: they shall bere and doo the gretter reverence, gretter preysyng and renommee than the grete. For thonour of the curtosye that is done and gyuen to the grete ​whiche is done vnto smal gentylmen and gentyl wymmen and to other of lasse degre, that honoure and curtosye comen of a fre and a curtoys hert. And the lytell or poure ma or woman to whome it is done thynketh that he is happy to receyue it and hath therin a grete playsyre, and gyueth ageyne grete honoure to hym or her that hath done to hym suche curtosye and honoure, And by this maner of the smal peple to whome is done suche curtosye or honoure cometh the grete loos and renomme whiche groweth fro day to day. It hapned that I was in a companye of knyghtes and ladyes, and a grete lady tooke of her hood and humbled her self curtoysly vnto a tayloure. And ther was a knyght that said to her, "Madame, why haue ye taken of youre hoode vnto a taylloure?" And she answerd that she had leuer to take it of to hym, than to haue lefte it vnto a gentyll man. And that was reputed for ryght wel done, and as for the best taujt of all the other.
# The Book of the Thousand Nights and One Night/The Miller and his Wife

First-level story, told by Shehrzad
THE MILLER AND HIS WIFE.
There was a miller, who had an ass to turn his mill; and he was married to a wicked wife, whom he loved; but she hated him and loved a neighbour of hers, who liked her not and held aloof from her. One night, the miller saw, in his sleep, one who said to him, ‘Dig in such a spot of the ass’s circuit in the mill, and thou shalt find a treasure.’ When he awoke, he told his wife the dream and charged her keep it secret; but she told her neighbour, thinking to win his favour, and he appointed with her to come to her by night. Night ccclxxxviii.So he came and they dug in the mill and found the treasure and took it forth. Then said he to her, ‘How shall we do with this?’ ‘We will share it equally between us,’ answered she; ‘and do thou leave thy wife and I will cast about to rid me of my husband. Then shalt thou marry me, and when we are united, we will add the two halves of the treasure, one to the other, and it will be [all] in our hands.’ Quoth he, ‘I fear lest Satan seduce thee and thou take some man other than myself; for gold in the house is like the sun in the world. Meseems, therefore, it were better that ​the money be all in my hands, so thou mayst study to win free of thy husband and come to me.’ ‘I fear the like of thee,’ rejoined she, ‘and I will not yield up my part to thee; for it was I directed thee to it.’ When he heard this, covetise prompted him to kill her; so he killed her and threw her body into the empty hole; but the day overtook him and hindered him from covering it up; so he took the treasure and went away.
Presently, the miller awoke and missing his wife, went into the mill, where he fastened the ass to the beam and shouted to it. It went on a little, then stopped; whereupon he beat it grievously; but the more he beat it, the more it drew back; for it was affrighted at the dead woman and could not go on. So he took out a knife and goaded it again and again, but still it would not budge. Then he was wroth with it, knowing not the cause of its obstinacy, and drove the knife into its flanks, and it fell down dead. When the sun rose, he saw his wife lying dead, in the place of the treasure, and great was his rage and sore his chagrin for the loss of the treasure and the death of his wife and his ass. All this came of his letting his wife into his secret and not keeping it to himself.
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