OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# The Philippine Islands, 1493-1898/Volume 1/Note on correspondence

[For lack of space, certain documents to and by Jaime Ferrer, regarding the line of demarcation, cannot be included in this series. These documents—a letter from the Cardinal Despanya, Archibshop of Toledo, Don Pedro de Mendoza, Barcelona, August 26, 1493; a letter from Ferrer to the Catholic sovereigns, Barcelona, January 27, 1495; Ferrer's opinion regarding the treaty of Tordesillas (undated, but probably in 1495); and a letter from the Catholic sovereigns, Madrid, February 28, 1495,—will be found in Navarrete, Coll. de viages, tomo ii, edition 1825, pp. 97–110; edition 1858, pp. 111–117, part of núm. lxviii; and a translation of all but the first in Dawson's Lines of Demarcation (printed in Translations of the Royal Society of Canada, 1899-1900, second series, vol. v, sec. ii, pp. 541-544,—also printed separately). Navarrete states that these documents were printed in Barcelona in 1545, in a now rare book compiled by Ferrer under the title Sentencias cathólicas del Divi poeta Dant. In the first letter, signed "El Cardenal," Ferrer's presence is requested in Barcelona; he is to take with him his mappamundo and all his cosmographical instruments.]
# The Tricolour, Poems of the Irish Revolution/The Sacred Fire

THE SACRED FIRE
They lit a fire within their land that long was ashes cold,
With splendid dreams they made it glow, threw in their hearts of gold.
They saw thy slowly paling cheek and knew thy failing breath,
They bade thee live once more, Kathleen, who was so nigh to death.
And who dare quench the sacred fire, and who dare give them blame,
Since he who draws too near the glow shall break into a flame?
They lit a beacon in their land, built of the souls of men,
To make thee warm once more, Kathleen, to bid thee live again.
# The Tricolour, Poems of the Irish Revolution/The Prisoner

THE PRISONER
All day I lie beneath the great pine tree, Whose perfumed branches wave and shadow me. I hear the groaning of its straining heart As in the breeze its thin leaves meet and part Like frantic fingers loosened and entwined; I hear it whisper to the sighing wind, “What of the mountain peaks, where I was born?” As sharp tears drop I feel its falling thorn.
I see in the far clouds the wild geese fly, Homeward once more, free, in the storm-swept sky. Back to the land they loved, all, all, have gone, How swift the flight by joy and hope led on. “What of the mountain land where I was born?” I cry, they pass, glad in the dawning morn, Home to the moon-pale lake, the heath-clad hill, And give no thought for one imprisoned still
All day I lie beneath the sad pine tree, Whose groaning branches wave and shadow me, Chained to the earth, the dark clay of the grave, In helpless fashion feel its wild heart rave. “Free, set free,” I hear its moaning breath, Where liberty means naught, alas, but death Ah, freedom is but death.
# The Tricolour, Poems of the Irish Revolution/The Wild Beast

THE WILD BEAST
One spring as I went walking By budding leaf and thorn To see the sun a-shining Upon an Easter morn; My hound she gambolled by me, Oft hunting in her play Some small thing in the hedges She found upon her way, How splendid was her going, How happy was her joy, I felt I could not chide her Nor dared her play destroy.
Yet oft I called “Come hither, I fear lest thou displace Some hidden beast or reptile All savage for the chase.” I scarce had spoken to her And turned again for town When we were in the shadows And fog and mist came down.
When from the gloom and darkness Some lion voice did roar. He sprung upon our pathway To stand our road before. I cried in vain contention, “O, let us go our way.” But to our further progress The red cat stood at bay. My hound would not obey me, So brave and fine was she, But sprang upon the wild beast To fight for liberty.
Oh, how my heart was beating So full of grief and fear At thunder of the battle That fell upon my ear. Oh, great and splendid fighting Like to the times of Fionn, Alas! uneven chances, My dear one could not win; And sudden to a silence I opened eyes of pain, With face towards her foe still My faithful hound was slain.
But she has left behind her A son of splendid race, And he shall bound before me And take the other's place. So I can go a-walking 'Mid budding leaf and thorn To see the Sun a-rising Upon an Easter morn.
# The Tricolour, Poems of the Irish Revolution/The Queen

THE QUEEN
I saw her many years ago, my gladness and my grief. She stood amongst the barley fields to bind the wayward sheaf. She walked upon the mountain's side to draw the brown turf home, She planted many famine crops within the peaty loam. From rugged rocks and silver shore she gathered grey sloakeen. She made the green earth brown again, and made the brown earth green. She wearied in those striving years from morning until night. Her fields grew white, her stately home shone in the morning light. But O, those hours of yesterday, mo storeen and mo crie, I saw her turn her face away to hide her grief from me.
I flew to her a while ago, my thousand joys—so dear; For ruin fell upon her house and I was full of fear. I saw wild fury seize her home, I heard a red wind scream, I saw the groaning roof- tree fall, the flame on wall and beam. I fell upon the broken way, struck down by chill despair: “My life's long love, my only joy, my dear beyond compare, A thousand souls will bleed with mine, a thousand hearts expire, To see so fair a form as thine upon a martyr's fire.” From out the glow, from out the flame, from ruin fierce and wild, I saw her come with dancing feet and glad face like a child, Her red-gold hair, her snow-white brow, her gown of silken green: Out through the ruins of her home, she walked as would a queen. Ni Houlihan, Ni Houlihan, she came a splendid queen.
# The Tricolour, Poems of the Irish Revolution/The Story without End

THE STORY WITHOUT END
Before my time my kindred were As felons in their land, Because they claimed the liberty That freemen understand.
Ere I was born in Dublin town Men's hearts were still aflame; They spoke of Allen and O'Brien, And whispered Larkin's name.
When I slept on my mother's breast, A little babe, and frail, Young Duffy's hearse went slowly by: He died in Milbank Jail.
When I could read, I spelt and knew The lives of patriot men; When I could write, my pencil traced— “A Nation Once Again.”
I learnt of those who often knew The baton and the cell, Who asked for right by peaceful means— O'Connell to Parnell.
And once when thro' the cheering streets Some “felon” homeward came I lit, amongst the gayer lights, My candle's tiny flame.
When I was but a tiny child I ran by Kickham's side; I heard his bitter story told In reverence and pride.
And when with years he passed away. When life was young and fair, I stood upon time's crowded path, And met O'Leary there.
I saw with pity and amaze A craven party go, Obedient to a Scotsman's word, For Parnell's overthrow.
Before Kilmainham's bloodstained walls I stood all cold and still; I lived through all the awful night That shadowed Pentonville.
If thus o'er one life's blotted page Some neutral soul should bend, He'll read to-day—as yesterday— The story without end.
# The Tricolour, Poems of the Irish Revolution/The Tree Uprooted

THE TREE UPROOTED
IN MEMORY OF ROGER CASEMENT
The earth-bound giant now is free, is free; The last fight over, and the last moan still; No tale of snow-clad heights where great dreams be, His exile heart can thrill.
Ah! how he cried with groaning branch and bough, For that far land beyond the sunshine morn, For that last joy tilled earth will not allow, That land where he was born.
Ah! how his heart that fought for freedom pined; His leaves, like restless fingers, tried to hold The trailing garments of the passing wind, His struggle manifold.
The four winds heard and strove with mighty hands To bear him back to that far northern height Where he was born; loosed from his earthly bonds, He poised, a moment's flight.
Then to the wind in passionate embrace His branches moved—out sung his parting breath. He leaned to freedom from his prison place, Whose freedom was but death.
Better so lie, from this dire bondage free, O! heart, who knew the silence of the snows, Than stand alone, O solitary tree! Where English greenwood grows.
Better to die than live in dull disgrace, O! soul that dreamed the glory of the dream; To be for sparrows but a resting place, Who heard the eagles scream.
# The Tricolour, Poems of the Irish Revolution/The Hill-Side Men

THE HILL-SIDE MEN
O were my heart a little dog I'd call it to my side To hold it with a silken lead And would not be denied.
For O it wandered far from me By mountain, vale and glen, How glad it marched the weary miles Amongst the hill-side men!
Ah, were my heart a singing bird I would not let it free, It dare not dream of sunrise skies, Or chant of liberty.
For, ah! it sprang cloud high to sing From mountain, vale, and fen, When first it heard the secret drums, The hearts of hill-side men.
My hopes are lost, my dreams are fled; How lone are vale and fen! My heart lies cold within the grave That holds the hill-side men.
# The Tricolour, Poems of the Irish Revolution/The Old Song

THE OLD SONG
When I was a young lad of happy sixteen There came to my window the Cushla-mochree, And the song that she sang was the song of the wind, And the song that she sang was the song of the sea.
“And will you come with me, a vie and a stor? And will you come with me, alanna?” she cried, “O, my father will rage and my mother will mourn, If I take to the mountains to march by your side.”
“O, your father must rage and your mother must sigh, But I bid you follow and I am your queen.”
O, I stole from my window I held her so dear, And I followed the wave of her garments of green.
My father did rage and my mother did sigh, “Your way will be hard and your heart it will break, Your feet will grow weary, your cheek will be pale, If you go to the mountains for Grannia Wad's sake.”
My years waned in prison, my rough bed was hard, When I was a freeman my blood it was cold: I met her, my true-love; I made her my wife: O, home-weary was I because I grew old!
O, the years flew in passing in peace and in rest, And I watched my young son as he leaped and he ran,
O, proud was my heart as I dreamed me a dream, I would wed him to fortune when he grew a man.
But when I was dreaming one eve in my chair There came to the window the song of the sea, The song of the mountains, the song of the wind, And my son rose and answered, “Who calls upon me?”
“My son, if you listen your mother will mourn, Your father will rage, and your cheek will grow pale, Your wife will be grieving, your child weep alone, If you follow the singing of poor Grannia Wael.”
As he would not hear me his mother did mourn, His child wearied for him, his wife's cheek grew pale,
He was shot without pity at dawn of the day, And the last words he spoke were, “God bless Grannia Wael.”
My grandchild is troubled, he calls from his sleep, “Ah, Gran'father, Gran'father, what does she say?” “O, little one, little one, rest you secure, The wind on the window it calls in its play.
“O, little one, little one, hush you and sleep, 'Tis the song of the wind and the cry of the sea.” “O, gran'father, gran'father, when may I go? 'Tis the voice of poor Grannia Wael calling to me.
“O, your path will be rough and your prison bed hard, Your heart will be broken, your cheek will grow pale,
You will die on the gallows when life is yet young, If you list to the singing of old Grannia Wael.”
“My path may be rough and my prison bed hard, But my heart will be glad and my soul shall not quail, I shall die on the gallows with joy and with pride, And my last breath shall whisper, ‘God bless Grannia Wael.’”
# The Tricolour, Poems of the Irish Revolution/The Star

THE STAR
[IN MEMORY OF PATRICK PEARSE]
I saw a dreamer, I saw a poet, On the red battle-field fell my slow tear, “Lover of birds and flowers, singer of gentle songs, Dying with men of war, what do you here?” Languid his closing eyes looked to the breaking dawn Where the young day peeped out through prison bars, “I on a high hill stood singing a dear old song, I fell to earth,” he sighed, “grasping at stars.”
He laid him softly down, cold was his paling cheek, Silent and chill he grew as the dead are, But from his folded hands on to the crimson earth
Glowing and shimmering fell a great star. Out of the heavens there came a hand raising it, Set in the green sky for all to see, There it shone purely bright, faithful as planets shine, There it sung loud and sweet, “Come, follow me”
# The Woods of Dandenong

High, clear and high, the soaring skylark sings  Love! Love! Love! the joy of life and woe: Throbs, throbs his heart, as upward on thrilling wings  Far, far he soars from this dim world below. Was it a skylark's voice or a soul's triumphant song We heard in the days gone by in the woods of Dandenong?
Rose, lovely rose—a fairer rose was she —  Rose, white rose, I kiss your tender leaves! Speak, speak, speak, O Soul-white rose for me,  Say, say to her my heart in silence grieves. Lonely and sad it grieves amidst the careless throng . . . Ah, green are the waving trees in the woods of Dandenong!
Star, crystal star, shining where angels be,  Bright, bright star — yet brighter were her eyes — Ai! Ai! Ai! Star of my life was she!  Shine, gently shine where low her bright head lies. And ah, but the world is cold and the way is dark and long; And oh, that we were once more in the woods of Dandenong.
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 Word (Masefield)

My friend, my bonny friend, when we are old, And hand in hand go tottering down the hill, May we be rich in love’s refined gold, May love’s gold coin be current with us still.
May love be sweeter for the vanished days, And your most perfect beauty still as dear As when your troubled singer stood at gaze In that dear March of a most sacred year.
May what we are be all we might have been And that potential, perfect, O my friend, And may there still be many sheafs to glean In our love’s acre, comrade, till the end.
And may we find when ended is the page Death but a tavern on our pilgrimage.
# The Word

* Search for titles containing or beginning with: "The Word."
* sister projects: Wikipedia article, 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.
* "A Word", a poem by Gilbert Keith Chesterton
* "The Word", a poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
* "The Word", a 1910 poem by John Masefield
* "The word", 1915 poem by Covington Hall
# Thinks I to Myself Thinks I/Thinks I to Myself Thinks I

THINKS I TO MYSELF THINKS I.
Thinks I to myself, thinks I, I see no reason why, The devil should pause To sharpen his claws Thinks I to myself thinks I.
Thinks I to myself, thinks I, Those parsons are dev'lish sly, To shun him, they preach, While they suck like a leach, Thinks I to myself thinks I.
Thinks I to myself, thinks I, Let knaves my song descry ; I'll keep from the paw, Of physic and law, Thinks I to myself, thinks I.
Thinks I to myself, thinks I, Let none their aid deny, Nor leave their own work, For a devil or Turk, Thinks I to myself thinks I.
​Thinks I to myself, thinks I, State jugglers now, good bye; No longer will slave, Be govern'd by knaves, Thinks I to myself thinks I.
# Thinkin' Back

I've ben thinkin' back, of late, S'prisin'!—And I'm here to state I'm suspicious it's a sign Of age, maybe, or decline Of my faculties,—and yit I'm not feelin' old a bit— Any more than sixty-four Ain't no young man any more!
Thinkin' back's a thing 'at grows On a feller, I suppose— Older 'at he gits, i jack, More he keeps a-thinkin' back! Old as old men git to be, Er as middle-aged as me, Folks'll find us, eye and mind Fixed on what we've left behind— Rehabilitatin'-like Them old times we used to hike Out barefooted fer the crick, 'Long 'bout Aprile first—to pick Out some "warmest" place to go In a-swimmin'—Ooh! my-oh! Wonder now we hadn't died! Grate horseradish on my hide Jes' a-thinkin' how cold then That-'ere worter must 'a' ben!
Thinkin' back—W'y, goodness me! I kin call their names and see Every little tad I played With, er fought, er was afraid Of, and so made him the best Friend I had of all the rest!
Thinkin' back, I even hear Them a-callin', high and clear, Up the crick-banks, where they seem Still hid in there—like a dream— And me still a-pantin' on The green pathway they have gone! Still they hide, by bend er ford— Still they hide—but, thank the Lord, (Thinkin' back, as I have said), I hear laughin' on ahead!
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
# Thinks I to Myself Thinks I

Thinks I to myself thinks I;
To which are added,
The Battle of Prestonpans,
Parody on the Rose-Bud of Summer.
STIRLING:
PRINTED BY W. MACNIE.
1826.
* Thinks I to Myself Thinks I
* The Battle of Prestonpans
* Parody on the Rose-Bud of Summer
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
# Thinks I to Myself Thinks I/Parody on the Rose-Bud of Summer

PARODY ON THE ROSE-BUD OF SUMMER.
WHEN gooseberries grow on the stem of a daisy, And plum-puddings roll on the ti e to the shore, And jalap it made from the curls of a j zy Oh! then Molidusta, I'll love thee no more
When steam boats no more on the Thames shall be going, And a cast iron bridge reach Vauxhall from the Nore, And the Grand Junction Water-works cease to be flowing, Oh! then Molidusta, I'll love thee no more.
FINIS.
# Third Anniversary of Crash of Flight 3407

Delivered on the floor of the United States House of Representatives on February 7, 2012 in remembrance of those who died in the Flight 3407 crash of 2009.
Three years ago this week, an unspeakable tragedy occurred when a plane full of people, those who were dearly loved by their families, crashed through a home in Clarence Center, in my district. The cause was pilot fatigue and inexperience, and the cruel irony that it occurred over Valentine's Day weekend was lost on no one.
Yet, out of those ashes arose an indomitable spirit among these families that united them in their grief and brought their quest right here to the Halls in Washington. They wanted to ensure that no other family had to endure having their hearts ripped out the way they all had. They never took "no" for an answer. They never gave up, and they inspired Congress to work in a bipartisan way to pass historic flight safety reform rules.
That's why I am joined by my colleagues from western New York to introduce a resolution to honor them, the victims of the crash, to thank the surviving families of Flight 3407, and to call on the administration to finish the work they started to implement these necessary FAA rules.
Until the will of Congress and of the families we serve is translated into new rules, we will not give up the fight, because the families are counting on us, and they've never given up the fight.
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it is a work of the United States federal government (see 17 U.S.C. 105).
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# Thinking

If you think you are beaten, you are If you think you dare not, you don't, If you like to win, but you think you can't It is almost certain you won't.
If you think you'll lose, you're lost For out of the world we find, Success begins with a fellow's will It's all in the state of mind.
If you think you are outclassed, you are You've got to think high to rise, You've got to be sure of yourself before You can ever win a prize.
Life's battles don't always go To the stronger or faster man, But soon or late the man who wins Is the man WHO THINKS HE CAN!
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
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
# Thom's Irish Who's Who/Layng, Arthur Edward

​LAYNG, Arthur Edward, MA., LL.D. (Hons.) (T.C.D.): Member of the Senate of Dublin University; Hon. Lieut. Royal Dublin Fuseliers: late Lieut. Canadian Militia. Educ.: Corrig School, Kingstown, and Trinity College, Dublin. Engaged in educational work since 1905; Senior Assistant Master Royal School, Raphoe, 1905-8: Fifth Form Master Queen's College, Taunton, 1909-1912: Assistant Professor of Classics Queen's University, Kingston, Ontario, 1912-1918; Head Master, The Preston School, Abbeyleix, 1919-20; Principal of Midleton College, Co. Cork, since 1920. Chairman United Services Fund, Midleton Branch; b. 13th April, 1883; sixth son of Wm. F. Layng, late of Holyrood, Ballsbridge. Co. Dublin; m. Elizabeth Mary, dau. of Wm. W. Despard, J.P., Donore, Mountrath, Queen's Co. Recns.: golfing, tennis, chess. Res.: Midleton College, Midleton, Co. Cork.
# Thom's Irish Who's Who/Le Hunte, Sir George Ruthven

​LE HUNTE, Sir George Ruthven, G.C.M.G. (1912), K C.M.G. (1903), C.M.G. (1898), M.A. (Cantab.); Barrister Inner Temple, 1881: entered Col. Service (Fiji), 1875: President of Dominica. 1888-94; Col. Sec, Barbados, 1894-7; Col. Sec. of Mauritius, 1897-8; Lieut.-Governor of British New Guinea, 1898-1903; Governor of South Australia, 1903-08; of Trinidad and Tobago, 1908-16; eldest son of the late George Le Hunte, Esq., of Artramont, Wexford; b. 1852; m. 1884, Caroline Rachel, dau. of John Clowes, Esq., D.L., of Burton Court, Herefordshire. Res.: Artramont, Wexford; Travellers' Club. S.W.
# Thom's Irish Who's Who/Leader, William Nicholas

​LEADER, William Nicholas, B.A. (Camb.), D.L., J.P., Co. Cork; late Lieut. Royal Scots Greys. Educ.: Harrow; Trinity College, Cambridge; eldest son of late William Leader, J.P., of Rosnalee, Banteer, Co. Cork, and Dora, dau. of The MacGillycuddy of The Reeks; b. 1851: m. 1881, Hon. Eleanor Charlotte Roche, dau. of 1st Baron Fermoy. Res.: Dromagh Castle, near Kanturk, Co. Cork; Rosnalee, Banteer, near Kanturk. Clubs; Carlton, Lordon; Kildare Street, Dublin.
# Thom's Irish Who's Who/Leahy, Major Thomas Joseph

​LEAHY, Major Thomas Joseph, D.S.O. (1919), M.C. (1916), Major late Royal Dublin Fusiliers. Educ. at Beaumont; served in European War, 1914-19 (desps., D.S.O., Mil. Cross, and French Legion of Honour); son of late Thomas J. Carroll Leahy, J.P., of Woodford, Mallow, Co. Cork, and Anne, 4th dau. of John Harold Barry, D.L., J.P., of Ballyvonare, Co. Cork; b. 1889. Res.; Woodford, Mallow, Co. Cork.
# Thom's Irish Who's Who/Lawlor, Henry Cairnes

​LAWLOR, Henry Cairnes, M.R.I.A; is Hon. Secretary and Organiser of the Archaeological Section of the Belfast Natural History and Philosophical Society; b. 1870. Educ.: Galway Grammar School. Pubns: History of the Family of Cairnes or Cairns, 1906; Historical Notes on the Parish of Glenarm, 1911; Account of the Excavation on the Giant's Ring, 1918; Investigations on Prehistoric Dwelling Places; Souterrains and Raths, 1915-1916: Account of the Excavations at the Mount of Downpatrick and Rathkeltchar, 1920; A History of Dunluce Castle and the Route, ​Co. Antrim, 1919; several papers in the Proceedings of the Royal Irish Academy, and of the Belfast Natural History and Philosophical Society. Is Managing Director of W. R. Young & Co., Ltd., Belfast. Recns.: gardening, practical archæology, motoring. Res.: Killyfaddy, Windsor Avenue, Belfast.
# Thom's Irish Who's Who/Lawrence, William John

​LAWRENCE, William John, Author and Journalist: b. 29th October. 1862. Educ. at Methodist College, Belfast; lecturer on Shakespeare in several American, Universities, 1917: granted a Civil List Pension, 1922, in recognition of his services to the history and literature of the Drama. Chief Works: The Life of G. V. Brooke, Tragedian, 1892; Barry Sullivan, 1893; The Elizabethan Playhouse and Other Studies, first and second series, 1912-3. Res.: 21 Northumberland Road, Dublin.