OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# The Book of Scottish Song/Strephon and Lydia

Strephon and Lydia.
[Tune, "The Gordon's ha'e the guiding o't."—"The following account of this song," says Burns, "I had from Dr. Blacklock. The Strephon and Lydia mentioned in the song were perhaps the loveliest couple of their time. The gentleman was commonly known by the name of Beau Gibson. The lady was the 'Gentle Jean' celebrated somewhere in Mr. Hamilton of Bangour's poems. Having frequently met at public places, they had formed a reciprocal attachment, which their friends thought dangerous, as their resources were by no means adequate to their tastes and habits of life. To elude the bad consequences of such a connection, Strephon was sent abroad with; a commission, and perished in Admiral Vernon's expedition to Carthagena, (in 1740). The author of this song was William Wallace, Esq. of Cairnhill, in Ayrshire."—William "Wallace was admitted a member of the faculty of advocates in 1734, and was married to a daughter of Archibald Campbell of Succoth in 1750, and died at Glasgow in 1763. There was another advocate of the same name, who flourished somewhat later in the century, and who became professor of Universal History in the University of Edinburgh.]
All lovely, on the sultry beach, Expiring Strephon lay; No hand the cordial draught to reach, Nor cheer the gloomy way. Ill-fated youth! no parent nigh To catch thy fleeting breath, No bride to fix thy swimming eye, Or smooth the face of death.
Far distant from the mournful scene, Thy parents sit at ease; Thy Lydia rifles all the plain, And all the spring to please. Ill-fated youth! by fault of friend, Not force of foe depress'd, Thou fall'st, alas! thyself, thy kind, Thy country, unredress'd.
# The Book of Scottish Song/Sweet Annie

Sweet Annie.
[This is not properly a Scottish song, though admitted into all our Scottish collections, but rather an English imitation, both in words and music, of the Scottish lyrical muse. The tune was composed by Dr. Maurice Greene, and published in Robart's "Caliope or English Harmony" in 1739, and afterwards adopted by Oswald in his Pocket Companion, (1742.) The song is said to have been written by Dr. John Hoadley, son of Bishop Hoadley, and, considering that it is the production of an Englishman, its use of the Scottish language is pretty accurately sustained, though here and there, we think, the Doric ear will detect something false in its construction—Something which betrays its bastard origin—and proves it to be "not the true Mackie" or "real Simon Pure."]
Sweet Annie frae the sea-beach came, Where Jocky speeled the vessel's side. Ah! wha can keep their heart at hame, When Jocky's tossed abune the tide! Far aff to distant lands he gangs; Yet I'll be true, as he has been: And when ilk lass about him thrangs, He'll think on Annie, his faithfu' ain!
I met our wealthy laird yestreen Wi' gowd in hand he tempted me He praised my brow, my rolling een, And made a brag o' what he'd gi'e. What though my Jocky's far awa', Tossed up and down the awsome main, I'll keep my heart another day, Since Jocky may return again.
Nae mair, false Jamie, sing nae mair, And fairly cast your pipe away; My Jocky wad be troubled sair, To see his friend his love betray. For a' your songs and verse are vain, While Jocky's notes do faithful flow. My heart to him shall true remain: I'll keep it for my constant jo.
Blaw saft, ye gales, round Jocky's head, And gar your waves be calm and still! His hameward sail with breezes speed, And dinna a' my pleasure spill. What though my Jocky's far away; Yet he will braw in siller shine; I'll keep my heart another day, Since Jocky may again be mine.
# The Book of Scottish Song/St. Mungo's Kirk-yard

St. Mungo's Kirk-yard.
[James Lemon.—Here first printed.—The author of this piece (a letter-carrier to the Glasgow Post Office) published in 1840 a small collection of "Original Poems and Songs."]
When the shadows o' midnicht fa' dark frae yon fane, O'er the graves o' the dead a' sae silent an' lane; An' the yellow sered leaf wavers in the chill breeze, Singin' sadly the dirge o' the dead through the trees: O! then, when the moon lichtly skims the nicht blue, An' flings o'er a' nature a pale ghaistly hue, I wander a' lanely, or lean on the sward, Makin' main wi' the owl in St. Mungo's Kirk-yard. ​Ah! the sad hollow echoes sounin' doon the auld pile,
Like the voice o' the dead risin' frae the dark aisle,
To me is mair dear than the mirth-making croud,
For a' my joy it is wrapt in my Peggy's death-shroud,—
In my Peggy's death-shroud wi' my wee bairnies three,
An' there 's nought worth the living for, if I could dee;
But though grey wi' grief I maun dree out my weird,
Till laid 'mang them a' in St. Mungo's Kirk-yard.
Ye've seen in the lane wild a bonnie wee flower,
Unconscious o' beauty, the pride o' its bower;
Sae my Peggy was fair, unassumin', an' meek,
The gowan's pure red an' white met in her cheek.
Till death cross'd our hallin an' took our first wean,
An' broke her sad heart aye sae dotin' an' fain;
For O! frae the day he was laid in the yird,
Her bloom it gaed wi' him to St. Mungo's Kirk-yard.
But had the fell spoiler but just stoppit here,
The floweret, that was noo sae pallid an' sere,
Wi' a mair sunny season micht bloom'd ance again,
But affliction, alas! seldom cometh alane;
For the death rap it knock'd mair than ance at our door,
An' bairn followed bairn to the dark mystic shore;
An' Peggy's fond bosom was sae sadly sered,
She followed them soon to St. Mungo's Kirk-yard.
In the dream o' the nicht an' the vision o' day,
I see her in a' her fond innocence gay,
Wi' her wee totums fondlin' and makin' sic glee,
An' O! it's a sweet glimpse o' heaven to me.
But I wake frae my dream to new sorrows again,
An' my vision it leaves me like ane that 'a insane,
For their green grassy graves by the wee cairn I rear'd Rushes sad on my sicht in St. Mungo's Kirk-yard.
O! the warl' to me is a bleak, dreary waste,
Without a green spot where a fond hope micht rest;
An' I stan' 'mid the gloom like a shelterless tree,
Sair scathed wi' the blast left my blossoms frae me.
The rose in its beauty wakes sympathies fain,
An' the minstrel can soothe wi' his heart-meltin' strain;
But my peace, like a wee bird, awa' it is scar'd,
And I look for it here in St. Mungo's Kirk-yard.
But hush! my dear Peggy, why should I repine?
For this pale wasted clay it will soon mix wi' thine—
It will soon mix wi' thine an' my wee bairnies three,
For where the heart lingers the body will be.
An' yet in thy bosom I'll find my lost peace,
Where the weary frae a' their sad murmurin's cease,
An' though in the warl' our lot has been hard,
We'll rise yet wi' joy frae St. Mungo's Kirk-yard.
# The Book of Scottish Song/Strathbungo Jean

Strathbungo Jean.
[Adam Knox.—Tune, "Andro and his cutty gun."—Strathbungo is a small hamlet about a little south of Glasgow.]
Blythe, blythe could I be wi' her, Happy baith at morn and e'en, To my breast I'd warmly press her, Charming maid, Strathbungo Jean.
The Glasgow lasses dress fu' braw, And country girls gang neat and clean, But nane o' them's a match ava To my sweet maid, Strathbungo Jean.
Though they be dress'd in rich attire, In silk brocade and mus-de-laine, Wi' busk and pad and satin stays, They'll never ding Strathbungo Jean.
Bedeck'd in striped gown and coat, Silk handkerchief and apron clean, Cheerfully tripping to her work, Ilk day I meet Strathbungo Jean.
Ye gods who rule men's destinies, I humbly pray you'll me befrien', And aid me in my dearest wish To gain my sweet Strathbungo Jean.
Gi'e to the ambitious priest a kirk, Gi'e riches to the miser mean, Let the coquette new conquests make, But, O! gi'e me Strathbungo Jean!
No happiness all day have I, My senses are bewilder'd clean, In bed all night on her I cry, My heav'n on earth, Strathbungo Jean.
Should fortune kindly make her mine, I would not change for Britain's queen; But fondly in my arms I'd clasp My charming maid, Strathbungo Jean.
# The Book of Scottish Song/Such a parcel of rogues

Such a parcel of rogues.
[Written by Burns, for Johnson's Museum, to the tune of "Such a parcel of rogues in a nation." The song refers to the disgraceful manner in which the union of Scotland with England was effected, by the bribery of many of the Scottish nobles. The beneficial effects of the Union were long in developing themselves—indeed, for nearly the first fifty years, Scotland was positively injured by it; but, apart from this, Burns, like all true-hearted Scotsmen, could never think of the loss of his country's independence without a sigh of regret.]
Fareweel to a' our Scottish fame, Fareweel our ancient glory; Fareweel even to the Scottish name, Sae fam'd in martial story! Now Sark rins o'er the Solway sands, And Tweed rins to the ocean, To mark where England's province stands: Such a parcel of rogues in a nation!
What force or guile could not subdue, Thro' many warlike ages, Is wrought now by a coward few, For hireling traitors' wages. The English steel we could disdain, Secure in valour's station; But English gold has been our bane: Such a parcel of rogues in a nation!
O would, ere I had seen the day That treason thus could sell us, My auld grey head had lien in clay, Wi' Bruce and loyal Wallace! But pith and power, till my last hour I'll make this declaration, We're bought and sold for English gold: Such a parcel of rogues in a nation!
# The Book of Scottish Song/Speak not of love

Speak not of love.
[Written by J. Yool of Paisley, and first printed in "The Portfolio of British Song."]
Speak not of love to one whose breast Is icy cold to idle joy; Whose passions long have sunk to rest, And chase no more the phantom toy.
Yet I have felt the maddening force Of fickle love and passion's sway, And run delirium's frenzied course When love and pleasure led the way.
And I have watch'd the bosom's swell That speaks of passion uncontroll'd, And gaz'd on sparkling eyes, that tell What virgin fears would not unfold.
And I have snatch'd the balmy kiss From ruby lips where love might play, And prest the downy breast of bliss, And sigh'd my very soul away.
Yes, I have run love's maddening race As more than worlds had been the stake, My feelings wearied in the chase, Have slumber'd never more to wake.
And now, though recollection shed A ray of mem'ry o'er my brain, It brings the trace of time long fled, Without the pleasure or the pain.
# The Book of Scottish Song/St. Andrew's Day

St. Andrew’s Day.
[John Imlah. Tune, "The Miller o' Dron."—"Saints," observes the author in a note to this song, "seem to have the fate of prophets—but little or no honour in their own country. St. Andrew's Day is much observed by Scotsmen out of their own land—and particularly so in London and in America. The principal festival of that ancient and excellent Corporation, the Scottish Hospital, in the metropolis, is held on this day, and is generally well attended by Scotsmen, and the benevolent natives of other countries. A worthy Alderman, well known for his strict attention to his magisterial duties, a few years ago, when he was Lord Mayor, presided in the absence of the late Duke of Gordon, and paid a compliment to his countrymen, whose names were in the book of subscribers to this charity, by terming the printed list a good Scotch Directory—at least, he added, all Scotsmen worth inquiring for were recorded in it. The last verse of this song alludes to the festival of that body, and the objects contemplated by their national and convivial meetings."]
Here's health and hail to Goth and Gael, Wha bear the Norlan' name, Blythe be they a'—the far awa', And happier folk at hame! And spend we gowd or but a grot, Our drink be what it may, Let Scot rejoice wi' brither Scot, Upon St. Andrew's day. Where'er we live, whate'er our lot, Still will I plead and pray That Scot rejoice wi' brither Scot, Upon St. Andrew's Day.
Some seek the Edens o' the east, Some Carib isles explore— The forests of the "far-off" west, And Afric's savage shore; Still charms of native speech and spot, And native springs for aye, Will band like brithers Scot with Scot, Upon St. Andrew's day. Where'er we live, &c.
Some that have won an honour'd name. Some that have gather'd gear, And others a' unknown to fame Or fortune may be here; But be we clad in braid-claith coat, Or hame-spun hodden grey, Let Scot rejoice wi' brither Scot, Upon St. Andrew's day! Where'er we live, &c.
Have we not cause to crack fu' crouse, When this dear day returns, Dear to the Land of Robert Bruce, The land of Robert Burns! Wha better raised the patriot brand, And pour'd the patriot lay, Than prince and peasant of the land That loves St. Andrew's Day! Where'er we live, &c.
"The better day the better deed," The saying's auld, I trow, Those of our nation here in need, Be they remember'd now; Each mite on high is treasure stored We here to poortith pay, 'Twill crown our cup—'twill bless our board, Upon St. Andrew's day! Where'er we live, whate'er our lot, Still will I plead and pray That Scot rejoice wi' brither Scot, Upon St. Andrew's Day.
# The Book of Scottish Song/Sweet's the dew

Sweet's the dew.
[The author of this and the following song was John Goldie, the original editor of the Paisley Advertiser. He was a native of Ayr, and for some time before he started the Paisley newspaper, which was the first ever published in that town, and was begun on the 9th Oct. 1824, he had teen engaged as editor of the Ayr Courier. Previous to this, too, in 1822, he had brought out by subscription a small volume of "Poems and Songs." He died suddenly, from the bursting of a blood-vessel, on the 27th Feb. 1826, in the twenty-eighth year of his age. At the time of his death, he was engaged in compiling for Mr. M'Phun of Glasgow a collection of songs, which was published in two small volumes, with the title of "The Spirit of British Song."]
Sweet's the dew-deck'd rose in June, And lily lair to see, Annie, But there's ne'er a flower that blooms, Is half so fair as thee, Annie. Beside those blooming cheeks o' thine,
The opening rose its beauties tine, Thy lips the rubies far outshine; Love sparkles in thy e'e, Annie.
The snaw that decks yon mountain top, Nae purer is than thee, Annie; The haughty mien, and pridefu' look, Are banish'd far frae thee, Annie; And in thy sweet angelic face, Triumphant beams each modest grace. "And ne'er did Grecian chissel trace," A form sae bright as thine, Annie.
Wha could behold thy rosy cheek, And no feel love's sharp pang, Annie, What heart could view thy smiling looks, And plot to do thee wrang, Annie. Thy name in ilk sang I'll weave, My heart, my soul wi' thee I'll leave,
And never, till I cease to breathe, I'll cease to think on thee, Annie.
# The Book of Scottish Song/Strathallan's Lament

Strathallan’s Lament.
[This Lament, written by Burns for Johnson's Museum, is supposed to express the feelings of James Drummond, Viscount of Strathallan, who escaped to France after the battle of Culloden, where his father was slain. "The air," says Burns, "is the composition of one of the worthiest and best-hearted men living—Allan Masterton, school-master in Edinburgh. As he and I were both sprouts of jacobitism, we agreed to dedicate the words and air to that cause. To tell the matter of fact, except when my passions were heated by some accidental cause, my jacobitism was merely by way of vive la bagatelle."]
Thickest night, o'erhang my dwelling! Howling tempests, o'er me rave! Turbid torrents, wintry swelling, Still surround my lonely cave! Crystal streamlets, gently flowing, Busy haunts of base mankind, Western breezes, softly blowing, Suit not my distracted mind.
In the cause of right engaged, Wrongs injurious to redress, Honour's war we strongly waged, But the heavens denied success. Ruin's wheel has driven o'er us, Not a hope that dare attend, The wide world is all before us— But a world without a friend!
# The Book of Scottish Song/Summer Wooing

Summer Wooing.
[Robert Nicoll.]
The green broom was bloomin',— The daisy was seen Peerin' up to the sky Frae the flower spangled green,— The burnie was loupin' By bank an' by brae, While alang by its margin A lassie did gae. She heard the wee birdies Sing hie in the cluds, An' the downy wing'd breezes Creep through the green wuds; An' she saw the bright e'enin' sun Lighting the whole:— There was joy in the lassie's face— Peace in her soul!
She sat in the shade Of a sweet-scented briar, An' the sounds of the wild wood Came saft on her ear; While the flushes o' feelin' Swept o'er her sweet face, As the clouds o'er the moon One another do chase. In the peace of the twilight Her soul did repose— ​Where green leaves were wavin' Her eyelids did close, She lay in that bower In her innocent sleep, And spirits around her Their vigils did keep.
The butterfly breathed On her cheek for a flower, As a pure maiden blush Spoke the dream o' the hour. While the lassie was sleepin' A bauld youth came by,— There was life in his footstep An' love in his eye. He stood by the maiden Who lay in her dream, An' heard her in slumber Laigh murmur his name. An idol she seem'd Sae heavenly fair, An' he an idolater Worshippin' there. He kiss'd her sweet lips, An' her warm cheek he press'd; An' the lassie awoke On her leal lover's breast!
The e'enin' was fa'in' On mountain an' fell, The rush o' the stream Through the darkness did swell; But the maid an' her true love Ne'er heeded the hour, As they sat in their bliss In that green briar bower. He tauld a' his love, While her tears fell like rain,— Their joy was sae joyfu' It maistly was pain. They hameward return'd Through the simmer mist grey, An' twa hearts were happy For ever and aye!
# The Battle Eternal

We live to fight for what we know To be the truth: we live to see The branches of the spirit grow Beyond the reaches of the 'Me'.
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 1940, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 83 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
# The Battle of Assaye

* Search for titles containing or beginning with: "The Battle of Assaye."
* 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.
* "The Battle of Assaye", a poem by Rudyard Kipling
* "The Battle of Assaye", a poem by John Leyden
# The Battle

United States Supreme Court
73 U.S. 498
The Battle
APPEAL from the District Court of the United States for the Southern District of Florida.
The libel set forth a seizure of the steamer Battle and cargo on the 18th July, 1863, on the high seas, as prize of war, which were brought into the port and harbor of Key West. She was captured about fifty miles south-southeast from Mobile Point by the United States steamer De Soto, Walker commanding. No claim of ownership for vessel or cargo was presented to the court. The vessel had just run, or was in the act of running, the blockade of Mobile when she was captured. The vessel and cargo were sold pending the suit. The proceeds of thes ale of the vessel were $23,000, and of the cargo, $240,895.62. The vessel and cargo were condemned for breach of blockade, and also as enemy property.
There were two claims set up against the steamer in the court below, one by James Brooks, of New Albany, State of Indiana, for supplies furnished at that port in May, 1860, to the amount of $3408.32, and another by Daniel Hipple and others for materials furnished, and for work and labor in building a cabin on said boat, in January, 1860, to the amount of $7230.92, at the port of New Albany aforesaid; that after deducting all payments a balance remains due of $3615.45. These claims were dismissed by the court below.
The appellant was not represented by counsel; Mr. N. Wilson, for the captors, and Mr. Ashton, special counsel, for the United States.
Mr. Justice NELSON delivered the opinion of the court.

## Notes

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
# The Battle of Blenheim

"The Battle of Blenheim" (also known as "After Blenheim") was written by Southey in 1796, and first appeared in the Morning Post on 9th August 1798.
* "The Battle of Blenheim", in Metrical Tales and Other Poems (1805)
* "The Battle of Blenheim", in Humorous Poems (1821), a chapbook printed in Glasgow
* "The Battle of Blenheim", in Poems That Every Child Should Know (1904), edited by Mary Elizabeth Burt
* "The Battle of Blenheim", in The Elocutionist; A Choice Selection Of the Most Popular Poems for Recitation (n.d.). A Scottish chapbook.
* "The Battle of Blenheim", in The Elocutionist; A Choice Selection Of the Most Popular Poems for Recitation (n.d.) A different edition of the same chapbook.
# The Battle/Opinion of the Court

* Court Documents
* Case Syllabus
* Opinion of the Court
* Wikipedia article
United States Supreme Court
73 U.S. 498
The Battle
The principle is too well settled that capture as prize of war, jure belli, overrides all previous liens, to require examination.
DECREE AFFIRMED.

## Notes

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
# An Etymological Dictionary of the German Language/Annotated/wetzen

| This annotated version expands the abbreviations in the original entry wetzen. | Random word Special:RandomInCategory/Annotated entries in Kluge's Etymological Dictionary of the German Language |
​ wetzen, verb, ‘to whet, sharpen,’ from Middle High German wętzen, Old High German węzzen (from *hwazzjan), weak verb, ‘to sharpen’; compare Dutch wetten, Anglo-Saxon hwęttan, English to whet, Old Icelandic hvetja, ‘to sharpen.’ A common Teutonic weak verb, properly strong. The Teutonic strong verbal root hwat, from Aryan kwod (by gradation ​kud), seems to be equivalent to the Sanscrit root cud, ‘to whet, sharpen, set on fire, incite’ (compare Anglo-Saxon hwęttan, Old Icelandic hvetja, ‘to excite, incite,’ properly ‘to sharpen’). The older Teutonic periods preserve the adjectives hwassa- (Gothic hwass, Old High German and Middle High German was) and hwato- (Anglo-Saxon hwœt, Old High German waȥ), ‘sharp,’ from the root hwat.
# An Etymological Dictionary of the German Language/Annotated/wichern

| This annotated version expands the abbreviations in the original entry wichern. | Random word Special:RandomInCategory/Annotated entries in Kluge's Etymological Dictionary of the German Language |
​ wichern, verb, ‘to neigh, shout noisily,’ an intensive form of the equivalent Middle High German wihen (wihenen, wihelen), Old High German wihôn for *wĭjôn, *hwĭjôn; formed from the same root as Middle High German weijen, Old High German weiôn (hweiôn), ‘to neigh’ (English dialectic to wicker). With the onomatopoetic root hwī̆ are connected, though with a different evolution of meaning, Anglo-Saxon hwînan, English to whine, Old Icelandic hvîna, ‘to rustle, drink (of beasts).’
# An Etymological Dictionary of the German Language/Annotated/wichsen

| This annotated version expands the abbreviations in the original entry wichsen. | Random word Special:RandomInCategory/Annotated entries in Kluge's Etymological Dictionary of the German Language |
​ wichsen, verb, ‘to black, polish (boots), wax (thread), from late Middle High German wihsen, Old High German wahsen, giwęhsen, weak verb, ‘to wax’; a derivative of Wachs.