OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# The Complete Poems of Paul Laurence Dunbar/The News

THE NEWS
Whut dat you whisperin' keepin' f'om me? Don't shut me out 'cause I 's ol' an' can't see. Somep'n's gone wrong dat 's a-causin' you dread,— Don't be afeared to tell—Whut! mastah dead?
Somebody brung de news early to-day,— One of de sojers he led, do you say? Did n't he foller whah ol' mastah lead? How kin he live w'en his leadah is dead?
Let me lay down awhile, dah by his bed; I wants to t'ink,—hit ain't cleah in my head:— Killed while a-leadin' his men into fight,— Dat 's whut you said, ain't it, did I hyeah right?
Mastah, my mastah, dead dah in de fiel'? Lif me up some,—dah, jes' so I kin kneel. I was too weak to go wid him, dey said, Well, now I 'll—fin' him—so—mastah is dead.
Yes, suh, I 's comin' ez fas' ez I kin,— Twas kin' o' da'k, but hit 's lightah agin: P'omised yo' pappy I 'd allus tek keer Of you,—yes, mastah,—I 's follerin',—hyeah!
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
# The Complete Poems of Paul Laurence Dunbar/Faith

FAITH
I's a-gittin' weary of de way dat people do, De folks dat's got dey 'ligion in dey fiah-place an' flue; Dey's allus somep'n comin' so de spit'll have to turn, An' hit tain't no p'oposition fu' to mek de hickory bu'n. Ef de sweet pertater fails us an' de go'geous yallah yam, We kin tek a bit o' comfo't f'om ouah sto' o' summah jam. W'en de snow hit git to flyin', dat's de Mastah's own desiah, De Lawd'll run de wintah an' yo' mammy'll run de fiah.
I ain' skeered because de win' hit staht to raih and blow, I ain't bothahed w'en he come er rattlin' at de do', Let him taih hisse'f an' shout, let him blow an' bawl, Dat's de time de branches shek an' bresh-wood 'mence to fall.
W'en de sto'm er railin' an' de shettahs blowin' 'bout, Dat de time de fiah-place crack hits welcome out. Tain' my livin' business fu' to trouble ner enquiah, De Lawd'll min' de wintah an' my mammy'll min' de fiah.
Ash-cake allus gits ez brown w'en February's hyeah Ez it does in bakin' any othah time o' yeah. De bacon smell ez callin'-like, de kittle rock an' sing, De same way in de wintah dat dey do it in de spring; Dey ain't no use in mopin' 'round an' lookin' mad an' glum Erbout de wintah season, fu' hit's des plumb boun' to come; An' ef it comes to runnin' t'ings I's willin' to retiah, De Lawd'll min' de wintah an' my mammy'll min' de fiah.
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
# The Complete Poems of Paul Laurence Dunbar/Dreams (1)

DREAM on, for dreams are sweet:  Do not awaken! Dream on, and at thy feet  Pomegranates shall be shaken.
Who likeneth the youth  Of life to morning? 'Tis like the night in truth,  Rose-coloured dreams adorning.
The wind is soft above,  The shadows umber. (There is a dream called Love.)  Take thou the fullest slumber!
In Lethe's soothing stream,  Thy thirst thou slakest. Sleep, sleep; 't is sweet to dream.  Oh, weep when thou awakest!
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
# The Complete Poems of Paul Laurence Dunbar/Dreams (2)

WHAT dreams we have and how they fly Like rosy clouds across the sky;  Of wealth, of fame, of sure success,  Of love that comes to cheer and bless; And how they wither, how they fade, The waning wealth, the jilting jade --  The fame that for a moment gleams,  Then flies forever, --dreams, ah --dreams!
O burning doubt and long regret O tears with which our eyes are wet,  Heart-throbs, heart-aches, the glut of pain,  The somber cloud, the bitter rain, You were not of those dreams -- ah! well, Your full fruition who can tell?  Wealth, fame, and love, ah! love that beams  Upon our souls, all dreams -- ah! dreams.
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
# The Complete Poems of Paul Laurence Dunbar/Encouragement

ENCOURAGEMENT
Who dat knockin' at de do'? Why, Ike Johnson,—yes, fu' sho! Come in, Ike. I 's mighty glad You come down. I t'ought you 's mad At me 'bout de othah night, An' was stayin' 'way fu' spite. Say, now, was you mad fu' true Wen I kin' o' laughed at you?  Speak up, Ike, an' 'spress yo'se'f.
'T ain't no use a-lookin' sad, An' a-mekin' out you 's mad; Ef you 's gwine to be so glum, Wondah why you evah come. I don't lak nobidy 'roun' Dat jes' shet dey mouf an' frown,— Oh, now, man, don't act a dunce! Cain't you talk? I tol' you once,  Speak up, Ike, an' 'spress yo'se'f.
Wha 'd you come hyeah fu' to-night? Body 'd t'ink yo' haid ain't right. I 's done all dat I kin do,- Dressed perticler, jes' fu' you; Reckon I 'd 'a' bettah wo' My ol' ragged calico. Aftah all de pains I 's took, Cain't you tell me how I look?  Speak up, Ike, an' 'spress yo'se'f.
Bless my soul! I 'mos' fu'got Tellin' you 'bout Tildy Scott. Don't you know, come Thu'sday night, She gwine ma'y Lucius White? Miss Lize say I allus wuh Heap sight laklier 'n huh; An' she 'll git me somep'n new, Ef I wants to ma'y too.  Speak up, Ike, an' 'spress yo'se'f.
I could ma'y in a week, Ef de man I wants 'ud speak. Tildy's presents 'll be fine, But dey would n't ekal mine. Him whut gits me fu' a wife 'Ll be proud, you bet yo' life. I 's had offers; some ain't quit; But I has n't ma'ied yit!  Speak up, Ike, an' 'spress yo'se'f.
Ike, I loves you,—yes, I does; You 's my choice, and allus was. Laffin' at you ain't no harm.— Go 'way, dahky, whah 's yo' arm? Hug me closer—dah, dat 's right! Was n't you a awful sight, Havin' me to baig you so? Now ax whut you want to know,—  Speak up, Ike, an' 'spress yo'se'f!
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
# The Complete Poems of Paul Laurence Dunbar/Equipment

EQUIPMENT
With what thou gavest me, O Master,  I have wrought. Such chances, such abilities,  To see the end was not for my poor eyes, Thine was the impulse, thine the forming thought.
Ah, I have wrought,  And these sad hands have right to tell their story, It was no hard up striving after glory,  Catching and losing, gaining and failing, Raging me back at the world's raucous railing.  Simply and humbly from stone and from wood, Wrought I the things that to thee might seem good.
If they are little, ah God! but the cost,  Who but thou knowest the all that is lost! If they are few, is the workmanship true?  Try them and weigh me, whate'er be my due!
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
# The Complete Poems of Paul Laurence Dunbar/Evening

EVENING
The moon begins her stately ride  Across the summer sky; The happy wavelets lash the shore,—  The tide is rising high.
Beneath some friendly blade of grass  The lazy beetle cowers; The coffers of the air are filled  With offerings from the flowers.
And slowly buzzing o'er my head  A swallow wings her flight; I hear the weary plowman sing  As falls the restful night.
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
# The Complete Poems of Paul Laurence Dunbar/Drizzle

DRIZZLE
Hit 's been drizzlin' an' been sprinklin',  Kin' o' techy all day long. I ain't wet enough fu' toddy,  I 's too damp to raise a song, An' de case have set me t'inkin',  Dat dey 's folk des lak de rain, Dat goes drizzlin' w'en dey's talkin',  An' won't speak out flat an' plain.
Ain't you nevah set an' listened  At a body 'splain his min'? W'en de t'oughts dey keep on drappin'  Was n't big enough to fin'? Dem 's whut I call drizzlin' people,  Othahs call 'em mealy mouf, But de fust name hits me bettah,  Case dey nevah tech a drouf.
Dey kin talk from hyeah to yandah,  An' f'om yandah hyeah ergain, An' dey don' mek no mo' 'pression,  Den dis powd'ry kin' o' rain. En yo' min' is dry ez cindahs,  Er a piece o' kindlin' wood, 'T ain't no use a-talkin' to 'em,  Fu' dey drizzle ain't no good.
Gimme folks dat speak out nachul,  Whut 'll say des whut dey mean, Whut don't set dey wo'ds so skimpy  Dat you got to guess between. I want talk des' lak de showahs  Whut kin wash de dust erway, Not dat sprinklin' convusation,  Dat des drizzle all de day.
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
# The Complete Poems of Paul Laurence Dunbar/Expectation

EXPECTATION
You 'll be wonderin' whut 's de reason  I 's a grinnin' all de time, An' I guess you t'ink my sperits  Mus' be feelin' mighty prime. Well, I 'fess up, I is tickled  As a puppy at his paws. But you need n't think I's crazy,  I ain' laffin' 'dout a cause.
You's a wonderin' too, I reckon,  Why I does n't seem to eat, An' I notice you a lookin'  Lak you felt completely beat When I 'fuse to tek de bacon,  An' don' settle on de ham. Don' you feel no feah erbout me,  Jes' keep eatin', an' be ca'm.
Fu' I's waitin' an' I's watchin'  'Bout a little t'ing I see— D' othah night I's out a walkin'  An' I passed a 'simmon tree. Now I's whettin' up my hongry,  An' I's laffin' fit to kill, Fu' de fros' done turned de 'simmons,  An' de possum 's eat his fill.
He done go'ged hisse'f owdacious,  An' he stayin' by de tree! Don' you know, ol' Mistah Possum  Dat you gittin' fat fu' me? 'T ain't no use to try to 'spute it,  'Case I knows you's gittin' sweet Wif dat 'simmon flavoh thoo you,  So I's waitin' fu' yo' meat.
An' some ebenin' me an Towsah  Gwine to come an' mek a call, We jes' drap in onexpected  Fu' to shek yo' han', dat's all. Oh, I knows dat you 'll be tickled,  Seems lak I kin see you smile, So pu'haps I mought pu'suade you  Fu' to visit us a while.
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
# The Chinese Repository/Volume 1/Number 5

THE
CHINESE REPOSITORY.
Vol. I.—Canton, September, 1832.—No. 5.
* Reviews
** The article "Canton" in the Encyclopædia Americana
** Possessions of the Reigning Chinese Dynasty (Part 3)
** Journal of a Residence in Siam (Part 5)
* Miscellanies
* Religious Intelligence
* Literary Notices
* Journal of Occurrences
# The Chinese Repository/Volume 1/Number 4

THE
CHINESE REPOSITORY.
Vol. I.—Canton, August, 1832.—No. 4.
* Reviews
** Possessions of the Reigning Chinese Dynasty (Part 2)
** Journal of a Residence in Siam (Part 4)
* Miscellanies
* Religious Intelligence
* Literary Notices
* Journal of Occurrences
# The Chinese Repository/Volume 1/Number 5/Literary Notices

←August 1832
September 1832
October 1832→
LITERARY NOTICE.
The London Court Journal.—This frivolous and superficial newspaper has ventured on the task of Chinese criticism, for which notable ability it avows itself indebted to 'Professor Neumann of Berlin.' The passage we particularly refer to, in No. 144, p. 72, begins thus.—"The Emperor of China. It is a vulgar error to mistake the words Taou-kuang for the name of his celestial Majesty. They only designate the Emperor's span of dominion, and really imply "the light of reason."—Why, we could have told the court Editor,—and every reading man in England, excepting the "vulgar" people about court, knew,—more than ten years ago, that Taou-kwang means "Reason's glory;" and that the appellation is the title assumed on his present majesty's ascending the throne.
As to the Chinese term Celestial empire,—we were not aware that any difference of opinion existed respecting the genuineness of the expression, until we observed the following extraordinary paragraph in this said Court Journal;—"No such ridiculous compound exists in China as the 'Celestial Empire,' though it is customary so to translate the words 'Tian-hia.' Their real meaning is, however, 'heaven beneath' or 'beneath the sky,' implying nothing more nor less than 'country;' it is perfectly ridiculous, therefore, to force this expression into any thing so removed from its genuine import as 'celestial empire.'
It is an unpleasant task to correct the errors of learned men; but it is a task which should not be too readily shrunk from: and since Professor Neumann has denounced the term 'Celestial empire' as a ridiculous combination, and the use of as a popular error, we think it necessary to defend its genuineness, and the propriety of its use. To force Tian-hia (more properly Teen-hea), to express such a meaning would indeed be absurd; but the Chinese words so translated are not Teen-hea; they are, as every Chinese scholar knows, Teen-chaou, the 'heavenly dynasty,'—the 'celestial empire;'—the word chaou, a dynasty, being always applied more generally; to denote the possessions of a dynasty,—an empire.
We must here, also, call the professor to task for another mistake which he has committed. Teen-hea, correctly rendered 'beneath the sky' or the heavens, does not simply imply 'country; but it implies 'the world,'—'all beneath the sky:' and it is used by the Chinese to denote their own empire, in the same exclusive way that the Romans considered their dominion as including the whole world, that is, the whole civilized world.
# The Chinese Repository/Volume 1/Number 6

THE
CHINESE REPOSITORY.
Vol. I.—October, 1832.—No. 6.
* Reviews
** A Voyage to China
** Siam
* Miscellanies
* Religious Intelligence
* Literary Notices
* Journal of Occurrences
# The Book of Scottish Song/Todlin' Hame 1

Todlin' Hame.
["This," says Burns, "is perhaps the first bottle-song that ever was composed." It appears in Ramsay's Tea-Table Miscellany, where it is marked as an old song.]
When I ha'e a saxpence under my thoom, Then I get credit in ilka toun; But, aye when I'm puir they bid me gang by; Oh, poverty parts gude company! Todlin' hame, todlin' hame, Couldna my loove come todlin' hame.
Fair fa' the gudewife, and send her gude sale! She gi'es us white bannocks to relish her ale, Syne, if that her tippeny chance to be sma', We tak' a gude scour o't, and ca't awa'. Todlin' hame, todlin' hame, As round as a neep come todlin' hame.
My kimmer and I lay down to sleep, Wi' twa pint-stoups at our bed's feet; And aye when we waken'd we drank them dry:— What think ye o' my wee kimmer and I? Todlin' butt, and todlin' ben, Sae round as my loove comes todlin' hame.
Leeze me on liquor, my todlin' dow, Ye're aye sae gude-humour'd when weetin' your mou'! When sober sae sour, ye'll fecht wi' a flee, That 'tis a blythe nicht to the bairns and me, When todlin' hame, todlin hame, When, round as a neep, ye come todlin hame.
# The Book of Scottish Song/Tibbie Dunbar

Tibbie Dunbar.
[Written by Burns, in 1789, for Johnson's Museum, to a tune called Johnnie M'Gill, from the name of its composer, John M'Gill, musician, Girvan, Ayrshire. According to other accounts, the tune is said to be Irish.]
O, wilt thou go wi' me, Sweet Tibbie Dunbar O, wilt thou go wi' me, Sweet Tibbie Dunbar? Wilt thou ride on a horse, Or be drawn in a car, Or walk by my side, O sweet Tibbie Dunbar? ​I care na thy daddie, His lands and his money, I care na thy kin Sae high and sae lordly; But say thou wilt ha'e me For bettor for waur— And come in thy coatie, Sweet Tibbie Dunbar!
# The Book of Scottish Song/To Daunton me

To Daunton me.
I.
[The tune of "To Daunton me" is at least more than a hundred years old, as it is to be found in Oswald, (1740.) The following words are chiefly by Burns, and were written by him for Johnson's Museum. Part of the chorus and some of the rest of the words are old.]
The blude-red rose at Yule may blaw, The summer lilies bloome in snaw, The frost may freeze the deepest sea; But an auld man shall never daunton me! To daunton me, and me sae young, Wi' his fause heart and flatterin' tongue! That is the thing ye ne'er shall see; For an auld man shall never daunton me.
For a' his meal, for a' his maut, For a' his fresh beef and his saut, For a' his gowd and white monie, An auld man shall never daunton me.
His gear may buy him kye and yowes, His gear may buy him glens and knowes; But me he shall not buy nor fee; For an auld man shall never daunton me.
He hirples twa-fauld, as he dow, Wi' his teethless gab and auld bauld pow, And the rain rins doun frae his red-blear'd e'e: That auld man shall never daunton me.
II.
[JACOBITE VERSION.]
[In Hogg's "Jacobite Reliques" we have no less than three Jacobite songs with the title "To Daunton me," and another to the same tune. We give the first and the best. It is also to be found in Cromek.]
To daunton me, and me sae young, And guid king James's auldest son! O, that's the thing that ne'er can be; For the man is unborn that'll daunton me! O, set me ance on Scottish land, My guid braidsword into my hand, My blue bonnet abune my bree, And shaw me the man that'll daunton me.
It's nae the battle's deadly stoure, Nor friends proved false, that'll gaur me cower; But the reckless hand o' povertie, O, that alane can daunton me. High was I born to kingly gear, But a cuif cam' in my cap to wear; But wi' my broadsword I'll let him see He's nae the man to daunton me.
O, I ha'e scarce to lay me on, Of kingly fields were ance my ain, Wi' the muir-cock on the mountain bree; But hardship ne'er can daunton me. Up cam' the gallant chief Lochiel, And drew his glaive o' nut-brown steel, Says, Charlie, set your fit to me, And shaw me wha will daunton thee!
# The Book of Scottish Song/To Arms

To Arms.
To arms! to arms! to arms, my lads: To arms! to arms! to arms! Care, that canker'd loon, Is lurking in the town To charge us wi' fierce alarms.
To arms! to arms! to arms, my lads! To quell his hatefu' power, By way of a shield, This bowl we will wield, The liquor will soon gar him skour.
Charge, charge, charge, charge, charge him home, my lads! Charge him home, charge him home, see he flees! A glass in your hand, Care never will stand, You may kill him whenever you please.
# The Book of Scottish Song/To Isabel

To Isabel.
[Francis Bennoch.]
Oh, were I as I ance ha'e been, An' ye as ye are now, I'd fainly fauld ye in my arms, An' kiss your bonnie brow! I'd kiss your bricht and bonnie brow, An' drink life frae your e'en; But, oh, this canna be, for now I'm no' asl ha'e been!
Your life is like the living sun, That gi'es life to the plain; Though clouds awhile may dim his smile, He'll brighter beam again. I wouldna be the cloud that comes Atween your love an' ye; Your life's sweet light—the light o' lo'e, Lo'e glentin' frae the e'e.
Wi' brother's lo'e I'll lo'e ye still Nor seek your heart to win; For less to think, an' mair to do, In me wad be a sin: But there can be nae sin, sweet lass, In praying, while awa', That joys frae ye may never pass, But blessings on ye fa'!
# The Book of Scottish Song/To my auld Wife

To my auld Wife.
[Tune, "Gloomy Winter."]
Our youthfu' days are lang awa', Past and gane our prime an' a', And the leafs begun to fa' Wi' you an' me, my dearie, O!
Spring it does not last for aye, Summer quickly fleets away, Syne the flowers do a' decay, An' sae maun we, my dearie, O!
For we baitb are wearin' auld, You'r growin' grey, an' I am bauld, Comin' fast is winter cauld O' life, to us, my dearie, O!
Twa score o' years ha'e near hand fled, Sin' we twa thegither wed, Our share o' joys an' waes we've had, My auld, my faithfu' dearie, O!
Contented on through life let's pass, Cure ne'er maks a sorrow less, Still ye are my ain dear lass, My auld, my faithfu' dearie, O!
Ne'er let you or me complain, Friends o' yours and mine are gane, Wha the married life began, Wi' you an' me, my dearie, O!
Whilst we twa aye spared ha'e been, Till our bairnie's bairns we've seen, Wha some day wi' divets green May see us hap'd, my dearie, O!
Time on wing mak's nae delay, Fast approaching is the day, When they doun us baith will lay In the cauld grave, my dearie, O!
When we meet that dreaded hour, May death's sting ha'e tint its power, Syne we'll flit to blissfu' bower To joys that ne'er shall wearie, O!
# The Book of Scottish Song/Tibbie Fowler

Tibbie Fowler.
[In the Tea-Table Miscellany, Ramsay has a song "to the tune of Tibbie Fowler in the Glen," which proves that the air, at least, is old. A fragment of the words is given in Herd's collection of 1776, but the first complete copy appeared in the 5th vol. of Johnson's Museum. The authorship has been ascribed to a "Rev. Dr. Strachan, late minister of Carnwath;" but David Laing says that there has been no minister of Carnwath of that name for at least the last three hundred years.]
Tibbie Fowler o' the Glen, There's ower mony wooing at her; Tibbie Fowler o' the Glen, There's ower mony wooing at her. Wooin' at her, pu'in' at her, Courtin' her, and canna get her; Filthy elf, it's for her pelf That a' the lads are wooin' at her.
Ten cam' east, and ten cam' west; Ten cam' rowin' ower the water; Twa cam' down the lang dyke-side: There's twa-and-thirty wooin' at her.
There's seven but, and seven ben, Seven in the pantry wi' her; Twenty head about the door: There's ane-and forty wooin' at her'
She's got pendles in her lugs; Cockle-shells wad set her better! High-heel'd shoon, and siller tags, {gap|1em}}And a' the lads are wooin' at her.
Be a lassie e'er sae black, Gin she ha'e the name o' siller, Set her up on Tintock tap, The wind will blaw a man till her. ​Be a lassie e'er so fair, An' she want the penny siller, A flie may fell her in the air, Before a man be even'd till her.
# The Book of Scottish Song/Time cannot blot

Time cannot blot.
[William Holmes.—Here first printed.]
Time cannot blot from memory's book The record of those tender ties, Sprung from that first and silent look Of ours into each other's eyes.
Yet neither of us read aright The language of each other's heart, Or thou would'st not my passion slight, Nor I be grieved from thee to part.
I dream't, while gazing on thy face, A soul was beaming on thy smile; Alas! it was a maiden grace My fancy furnished all the while.
'Tis ever thus that love is blind: My heart, though open to thy view, Seem'd but a picture, which thy mind Of its own icy coldness drew.
Farewell, farewell!—still thou wilt seem Unchang'd till my life's latest even; The image of a blessed dream, That gave to earth the light of heaven.
# The Complete Works of Swami Vivekananda/Volume 8/Epistles - Fourth Series/XXIII Sisters

XXIII
To the Hale Sisters (about the Calcutta meeting of 5th Sept., 1894)
NEW YORK
9th July (Sept.?), 1894.
O MY SISTERS,
Glory unto Jagadambâ (Mother of the Universe)! I have gained beyond expectations. The prophet has been honoured and with a vengeance. I am weeping like a child at His mercy — He never leaves His servant, sisters. The letter I send you will explain all, and the printed things are coming to the American people. The names there are the very flower of our country. The President was the chief nobleman of Calcutta, and the other man Mahesh Chandra Nyâyaratna is the principal of the Sanskrit College and the chief Brahmin in all India and recognised by the Government as such. The letter will tell you all. O sisters! What a rogue am I that in the face of such mercies sometimes the faith totters — seeing every moment that I am in His hands. Still the mind sometimes gets despondent. Sister, there is a God — a Father — a Mother who never leaves His Children, never, never, never. Put uncanny theories aside and becoming children take refuge in Him. I cannot write more — I am weeping like a woman.
Blessed, blessed art Thou, Lord God of my soul!
Yours affectionately,
VIVEKANANDA.