OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# The Book of Scottish Song/Craigie-burn-wood 1

Craigie-burn-wood.
[Another song by Burns in honour of Jean Lorimer, the "lassie wi' the lint-white locks." Burns wrote it to aid the eloquence of a Mr. Gillespie, one of her suitors. The eloquence and the poet's verse were equally unavailing; she married an officer who used her cruelly, and the result was a separation after a few months. "Craigie-burn-wood," says Currie, "is situated on the banks of the river Moffat, about three miles distant from the village of that name. The woods of Craigie-burn and Dumcrieff were at one time favourite haunts of our poet. It was there he met the 'Lassie wi' the lint-white locks,' and there he conceived several of his beautiful lyrics." The chorus of the present song is old.]
Sweet closes the evening on Craigie-burn-wood, And blithely awaukens the morrow; But the pride of the spring in the Craigie-burn-wood. Can yield to me nothing but sorrow. Beyond thee, dearie, beyond thee, dearie, And O! to be lying beyond thee, O sweetly, soundly, weel may he sleep That's laid in the bed beyond thee!
I see the spreading leaves and flowers, I hear the wild birds singing; But pleasure they ha'e nane for me, While care my heart is wringing. ​ I canna tell, I winna tell, I darena for your anger; But secret love will break my heart, If I conceal it langer.
I see thee gracefu', straight, and tall, I see thee sweet and bonnie; But oh, what will my torments be, If thou refuse thy Johnnie!
To see thee in anither's arms, In love to lie and languish, 'Twad be my dead, that will be seen, My heart wad burst wi' anguish.
But, Jeanie, say thou wilt be mine, Say, thou lo'es nane before me; And a' my days o' life to come I'll gratefully adore thee. Beyond thee, dearie, beyond thee, dearie, And O, to be lying beyond thee; O sweetly, soundly, weel may he sleep That's laid in the bed beyond thee!
# The Book of Scottish Song/Contented wi' little

Contented wi' little.
[Written by Burns to the tune of "Lumps o" Pudding."]
Contented wi' little, and cantie wi' mair, Whene'er I forgather wi' sorrow and care, I gi'e them a skelp, as they're creepin' alang, Wi' a cog o' gude swats, and an auld Scottish sang.
I whyles claw the elbow o' troublesome thought, But man is a sodger, and life is a faught: My mirth and gude humour are coin in my pouch, And my freedom's my lairdship nae monarch dare touch.
A towmond o' trouble, should that be my fa' A night o' gude fellowship southers it a': When at the blythe end o' our journey at last, Wha the deil ever thinks o' the road he has past?
Blind chance, let her snapper and stoyte on her way; Be't to me, be't frae me, e'en let the jade gae. Come ease, or come travail; come pleasure, or pain, My warst word is—"Welcome, and welcome again!"
# The Book of Scottish Song/Corunna's lone shore

Corunna’s lone shore.
[Written by Andrew Sharpe, a shoemaker in Perth, who latterly taught drawing. He died in 1815, aged 35.—Tune, "Erin go Bragh."]
Do you weep for the woes of poor wandering Nelly? I love you for that, but of love now no more, All I had long ago lies entomb'd with my Billy, Whose grave rises green on Corunna's lone shore. ​Oh! they tell me my Billy looked lovely when dying, That round him, the boldest in battle stood crying, While from his deep wound life's red floods fast were drying, At evening's pale close on Corunna's lone shore.
That night Billy died as I lean'd on my pillow, I thrice was alarm'd with a knock at my door, Thrice my name it was call'd with a voice soft and mellow, And thrice did I dream of Corunna's lone shore. Methought Billy stood on the beach where the billow, Boom'd over his head, breaking loud, long and hollow; In his hand he held waving a flag of green willow; Save me, God! he exclaimed, on Corunna's lone shore.
And now when I mind on't, my dear Billy told me, While tears wet his eyes, but those tears are no more, At our parting, he never again would behold me; 'Twas strange then I thought on Corunna's lone shore. But shall I ne'er see him when drowsy-ey'd night falls, When thro' the dark arch Luna's tremulous light falls, As o'er his new grave, slow the glow-worm of night crawls, And ghosts of the slain foot Corunna's lone shore?
Yes, yes, on this spot shall these arms infold him, For here hath he kiss'd me a thousand times o'er; How bewildered's my brain, now methinks I behold him, All bloody and pale on Corunna's lone shore. Come away, my beloved, come in haste, my dear Billy, On the winds wafting wing to thy languishing Nelly, I've got kisses in store, I've got secrete to tell thee, Come, ghost of my love, from Corunna's lone shore.
Oh! I'm told that my blue eyes have lost all their splendour, That my locks, once so yellow, now wave thin and hoar, 'Tis, they tell me, because I'm so restless to wander, And in thinking so much on Corunna's lone shore. But, God help me, where can I go to forget him; If to father's at home, in each corner I meet him, The sofa, alas! where he us'd aye to seat him, Says, Think, Nelly, think on Corunna's lone shore.
And here as I travel all tatter'd and torn, By bramble and brier, over mountain and moor, Not a bird bounds aloft to salute the new morn, But warbles aloud, O Corunna's lone shore. It is heard in the blast when the tempest is blowing, It is heard on the white broken waterfall flowing, It is heard in the songs of the reaping and mowing,— Oh, my poor bleeding heart! Oh, Corunna's lone shore!
# The Book of Scottish Song/Courtship

Courtship.
[Francis Bennoch.]
Yestre'en, on Cample's bonnie flood, The summer moon was shining; While, on a bank in Crichope wood, Two fond hearts were reclining: They spak' o' youth an' hoary age, O' time, how swiftly fleeting; Of ilka thing, in sooth, but ane,— The reason of their meeting!
When Willie thocht his heart was firm, An' micht declare its feeling, A glance frae Bessie's starry een Sent a' his senses reeling; For aye when he essay'd to speak, An' she prepared to hear him, The thochts in crimson dyed his cheek, An' words would no' come near him!
But nature, gentle mither, came In pity to assist him; She whisper'd what he ought to do— 'Twas her advice that bless'd him! He flung his arm around her neck, Nor did the maid resent it; Syne kiss'd her ripe and rosy lip— A deed he ne'er repented.
'Tis ever thus that love is taught By his divinest teacher; He silent adoration seeks, But shuns the prosy preacher. ​Now read me right, ye gentle anes, Nor deem my lesson hollow: The deepest river silent rins, The babbling brook is shallow.
# The Book of Scottish Song/Cradle Song

Cradle Song.
[Richard Gall.]
Baloo, baloo, my wee wee thing, O saftly close thy blinkin' e'e! Baloo, baloo, my wee wee thing, For thou art doubly dear to me. ​Thy daddie now is far awa', A sailor laddie o'er the sea; But Hope aye hechts his safe return To you, my bonnie lamb, an' me.
Baloo, baloo, my wee wee thing, O saftly close thy blinkin' e'e! Baloo, baloo, my wee wee thing, For thou art doubly dear to me. Thy face is simple, sweet, an' mild. Like ony simmer e'ening fa'; Thy sparkling e'e is bonnie black; Thy neck is like the mountain snaw.
Baloo, baloo, my wee wee thing, O saftly close thy blinkin' e'e! Baloo, baloo, my wee wee thing, For thou art doubly dear to me. O but thy daddie's absence lang. Might break my dowie heart in twa, Wert thou na left a dawtit pledge, To steal the eerie hours awa'.
# The Book of Scottish Song/Culloden Muir

Culloden Muir.
[John Anderson.—Air, "The Highland Watch."]
Culloden muir, Culloden field, Long wilt thou be remember'd: On thee the hero nobly fell, And with the dead was number'd; On thee the dearest blood was shed, By numbers doubled fairly; On thee the clans of Scotland bled For their dear royal Charlie.
Thy broad brown sward that day was dyed, The howes were clotted o'er; From gaping wounds incessant flow'd The red, red-reeking gore: Thou drank'st the precious blood of those Who fought that day fu' sairly, A glorious day for Scotland's foes, Eventful for prince Charlie!
Oh! Charlie, noble, gallant youth, Thy memory Scots revere; They loved thee with the warmest truth, Their hearts were all sincere: But traitor knaves, with brib'ry base, Made death's darts fly fu' rarely, And Scotland lang will mind the place She lost her royal Charlie.
# The Complete Works of Swami Vivekananda/Volume 6/Lectures and Discourses
## Lectures and Discourses

* The Methods and Purpose of Religion
* The Nature of the Soul and its Goal
* The Importance of Psychology
* Nature and Man
* Concentration and Breathing
* Introduction to Jnana-Yoga
* The Vedanta Philosophy and Christianity
* Worshipper and Worshipped
* Formal Worship
* Divine Love
# The Complete Works of Swami Vivekananda/Volume 6/Epistles - Second Series/XXXVIII Doctor

XXXVIII
KHETRI,
27th April, 1893.
DEAR DOCTOR, (Dr. Nanjunda Rao, M.D.)
Your letter has just reached me. I am very much gratified by your love for my unworthy self. So, so sorry to learn that poor Bâlâji has lost his son. "The Lord gave and the Lord bath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord." We only know that nothing is lost or can be lost. For us is only submission, calm and perfect. The soldier has no right to complain, nay murmur, if the general orders him into the cannon's mouth. May He comfort Balaji in his grief, and may it draw him closer and closer to the breast of the All-merciful Mother!
As to my taking ship from Madras, I do not think it feasible, as I have already made arrangements from Bombay. Tell Bhattacharya that the Raja (The Maharaja of Khetri, Rajputana.) or my Gurubhâis would be the last men to put any obstacles in my way. As for the Rajaji, his love for me is simply without limit.
May the Giver of all good bless you all here and hereafter, will be the constant prayer of
SACHCHIDANANDA.
(Swamiji uses to call himself such in those days.)
# The Complete Works of Swami Vivekananda/Volume 6/Epistles - Second Series/XXX Kali

XXX
(Translated from Bengali)
Salutation to Bhagavan Ramakrishna!
GHAZIPUR,
2nd April, 1890.
MY DEAR KALI (ABHEDANANDA),
Glad to receive your letter as well as Pramada Babu's and Baburam's (Premananda's). I am doing pretty well here. You have expressed a desire to see me. I too have a similar longing, and it is this that makes me afraid of going. Moreover, the Babaji forbids me to do so. I shall try to go on a few days' leave from him. But there is this fear that by so doing I shall be drawn up to the hills by the attraction I have for Hrishikesh, and it will be very difficult to shake it off, specially for one weak-minded, you see, like myself. The attack of lumbago, too, will not leave me on any account — a botheration! But then I am getting used to it. Please convey my countless salutations to Pramada Babu; his is a friendship which greatly benefits both my mind and body. And I am particularly indebted to him. Things will turn up some way, anyhow.
With best wishes,
Yours affectionately,
VIVEKANANDA.
# The Complete Works of Swami Vivekananda/Volume 6/Epistles - Second Series/XXXVII Govinda Sahay

XXXVII
MOUNT ABU,
1891.
DEAR GOVINDA SAHAY,
You must go on with your Japa whatever direction the mind takes. Tell Harbux that he is to begin with the Prânâyâma in the following way.
Try hard with your Sanskrit studies.
Yours with love,
V.
# The Complete Works of Swami Vivekananda/Volume 6/Epistles - Second Series/XXXVI Govinda Sahay

XXXVI
MOUNT ABU,
30th April, 1891.
DEAR GOVINDA SAHAY,
Have you done the Upanayana of that Brahmin boy? Are you studying Sanskrit? How far have you advanced? I think you must have finished the first part. ... Are you diligent in your Shiva Pujâ ? If not, try to be so. "Seek ye first the kingdom of God and all good things will be added unto you." Follow God and you shall have whatever you desire. ... To the two Commander Sahebs my best regards; they being men of high position were very kind to a poor fakir like me. My children, the secret of religion lies not in theories but in practice. To be good and to do good — that is the whole of religion. "Not he that crieth 'Lord', 'Lord', but he that doeth the will of the Father". You are a nice band of young men, you Alwaris, and I hope in no distant future many of you will be ornaments of the society and blessings to the country you are born in.
Yours with blessings,
V.
PS. Don't be ruffled if now and then you get a brush from the world; it will be over in no time, and everything will be all right.
# The Complete Works of Swami Vivekananda/Volume 6/Epistles - Second Series/X Sir

X[6]*
(Translated from Bengali)
BAGHBAZAR, CALCUTTA,
2nd Sept., 1889.
DEAR SIR,
Some days ago I received your two kind letters. I am very much pleased to find in you a wonderful harmony of Jnana and Bhakti. Your advice to me to give up arguing and disputing is very true indeed, and that is really the goal of life for the individual — "Sundered are the knots of the heart, torn off are all his doubts, and the seeds of his Karma wear off, when the sight of the Transcendent One is gained." (Mundakonapanishad, II. ii. 8.) But then, as my Master used to say, when a pitcher is being filled (by immersion), it gurgles, but when full, it is noiseless; know my condition to be the same. Within two or three weeks perhaps, I shall be able to meet you — may God fulfil that wish!
Yours etc.,
VIVEKANANDA.
# The Complete Works of Swami Vivekananda/Volume 6/Epistles - Second Series/XXXV Govinda Sahay

XXXV
AJMER,
14th April, 1891.
DEAR GOVINDA SAHAY,
. . . Try to be pure and unselfish — that is the whole of religion. . . .
Yours with love,
VIVEKANANDA.
# The Complete Works of Swami Vivekananda/Volume 6/Epistles - Second Series/XX Sir

XX[6]*
(Translated from Bengali)
GHAZIPUR,
13th Feb., 1890.
DEAR SIR,
I am in anxiety to hear of your illness. I am also having some sort of a pain in the loins which, being aggravated of late, gives much trouble. For two days I could not go out to meet Babaji, and so a man came from him to inquire about me. For this reason, I go today. I shall convey your countless compliments. "Fire comes out" that is, a wonderful devotion to Guru and resignation are revealed; and such amazing endurance and humility I have never seen. Whatever good things I may come by, sure, you have your share in them.
Yours etc.,
VIVEKANANDA.
# The Complete Poems of Francis Ledwidge/Songs of the Fields/A Rainy Day in April

A RAINY DAY IN APRIL
When the clouds shake their hyssops, and the rain Like holy water falls upon the plain, 'Tis sweet to gaze upon the springing grain And see your harvest born.
And sweet the little breeze of melody, The blackbird puffs upon the budding tree, While the wild poppy lights upon the lea And blazes 'mid the corn.
The skylark soars the freshening shower to hail, And the meek daisy holds aloft her pail, ​And Spring all radiant by the wayside pale, Sets up her rock and reel.
See how she weaves her mantle fold on fold, Hemming the woods and carpeting the wold. Her warp is of the green, her woof the gold, The spinning world her wheel.
By'n by above the hills a pilgrim moon Will rise to light upon the midnight noon, But still she plieth to the lonesome tune Of the brown meadow rail.
No heavy dreams upon her eyelids weigh, Nor do her busy fingers ever stay; She knows a fairy prince is on the way To wake a sleeping beauty.
​To deck the pathway that his feet must tread, To fringe the 'broidery of the roses' bed, To show the Summer she but sleeps,—not dead, This is her fixed duty.
ENVOI
To-day while leaving my dear home behind, My eyes with salty homesick teardrops blind, The rain fell on me sorrowful and kind Like angels' tears of pity.
'Twas then I heard the small birds' melodies, And saw the poppies' bonfire on the leas, As Spring came whispering thro' the leafing trees Giving to me my ditty.
# The Complete Poems of Francis Ledwidge/Songs of the Fields/A Twilight in Middle March

A TWILIGHT IN MIDDLE MARCH
Within the oak a throb of pigeon wings Fell silent, and grey twilight hushed the fold, And spiders' hammocks swung on half-oped things That shook like foreigners upon our cold. A gipsy lit a fire and made a sound Of moving tins, and from an oblong moon The river seemed to gush across the ground To the cracked metre of a marching tune.
And then three syllables of melody Dropped from a blackbird's flute, and died apart Far in the dewy dark. No more but three, ​Yet sweeter music never touched a heart Neath the blue domes of London. Flute and reed, Suggesting feelings of the solitude When will was all the Delphi I would heed, Lost like a wind within a summer wood From little knowledge where great sorrows brood.
# The Complete Poems of Francis Ledwidge/Songs of the Fields/After My Last Song

AFTER MY LAST SONG
Where I shall rest when my last song is over The air is smelling like a feast of wine; And purple breakers of the windy clover Shall roll to cool this burning brow of mine; And there shall come to me, when day is told The peace of sleep when I am grey and old.
I'm wild for wandering to the far-off places Since one forsook me whom I held most dear. I want to see new wonders and new faces Beyond East seas; but I will win back here When my last song is sung, and veins are cold As thawing snow, and I am grey and old.
​Oh paining eyes, but not with salty weeping, My heart is like a sod in winter rain; Ere you will see those baying waters leaping Like hungry hounds once more, how many a pain Shall heal; but when my last short song is trolled You'll sleep here on wan cheeks grown thin and old.
# The Complete Poems of Francis Ledwidge/Songs of the Fields/An Attempt at a City Sunset

AN ATTEMPT AT A CITY SUNSET
(TO J. K. Q.)
There was a quiet glory in the sky When thro' the gables sank the large red sun, And toppling mounts of rugged cloud went by Heavy with whiteness, and the moon had won Her way above the woods, with her small star Behind her like the cuckoo's little mother.... It was the hour when visions from some far Strange Eastern dreams like twilight bats take wing Out of the ruin of memories. O brother Of high song, wand'ring where the Muses fling ​Rich gifts as prodigal as winter rain, Like stepping-stones within a swollen river The hidden words are sounding in my brain, Too wild for taming; and I must for ever Think of the hills upon the wilderness, And leave the city sunset to your song. For there I am a stranger like the trees That sigh upon the traffic all day long.
# The Complete Poems of Francis Ledwidge/Songs of the Fields/A Memory

A MEMORY
Low sounds of night that drip upon the ear, The pluméd lapwing's cry, the curlew's call, Clear in the far dark heard, a sound as drear As raindrops pelted from a nodding rush To give a white wink once and broken fall Into a deep dark pool: they pain the hush, As if the fiery meteor's slanting lance Had found their empty craws: they fill with sound The silence, with the merry round, The sounding mazes of a last year's dance.
​I thought to watch the stars come spark by spark Out on the muffled night, and watch the moon Go round the full, and turn upon the dark, And sharpen towards the new, and waiting watch The grand Kaleidoscope of midnight noon Change colours on the dew, where high hills notch The low and moony sky. But who dare cast One brief hour's horoscope, whose tunéd ear Makes every sound the music of last year? Whose hopes are built up in the door of Past?
No, not more silent does the spider stitch A cobweb on the fern, nor fogdrops fall On sheaves of harvest when the night is rich ​With moonbeams, than the spirits of delight Walk the dark passages of Memory's hall. We feel them not, but in the wastes of night We hear their low-voiced mediums, and we rise To wrestle old Regrets, to see old faces, To meet and part in old tryst-trodden places With breaking heart, and emptying of eyes.
I feel the warm hand on my shoulder light, I hear the music of a voice that words The slow time of the feet, I see the white Arms slanting, and the dimples fold and fill.... I hear wing-flutters of the early birds, I see the tide of morning landward spill, The cloaking maidens, hear the voice that tells "You'd never know" and "Soon perhaps again," ​With white teeth biting down the inly pain, Then sounds of going away and sad farewells.
A year ago! It seems but yesterday. Yesterday! And a hundred years! All one. 'Tis laid a something finished, dark, away, To gather mould upon the shelves of Time. What matters hours or æons when 'tis gone? And yet the heart will dust it of its grime, And hover round it in a silver spell, Be lost in it and cry aloud in fear; And like a lost soul in a pious ear, Hammer in mine a never easy bell.
# The Complete Poems of Francis Ledwidge/Songs of the Fields/A Song of April

A SONG OF APRIL
The censer of the eglantine was moved By little lane winds, and the watching faces Of garden flowerets, which of old she loved, Peep shyly outward from their silent places. But when the sun arose the flowers grew bolder, And she will be in white, I thought, and she Will have a cuckoo on her either shoulder, And woodbine twines and fragrant wings of pea.
And I will meet her on the hills of South, And I will lead her to a northern water, ​My wild one, the sweet beautiful uncouth, The eldest maiden of the Winter's daughter. And down the rainbows of her noon shall slide Lark music, and the little sunbeam people, And nomad wings shall fill the river side, And ground winds rocking in the lily's steeple.
# The Complete Poems of Francis Ledwidge/Songs of the Fields/A Song

A SONG
My heart has flown on wings to you, away In the lonely places where your footsteps lie Full up of stars when the short showers of day Have passed like ancient sorrows. I would fly To your green solitude of woods to hear You singing in the sounds of leaves and birds; But I am sad below the depth of words That nevermore we two shall draw anear.
Had I but wealth of land and bleating flocks And barnfuls of the yellow harvest yield, And a large house with climbing hollyhocks And servant maidens singing in the field, ​You'd love me; but I own no roaming herds, My only wealth is songs of love for you, And now that you are lost I may pursue A sad life deep below the depth of words.
# The Complete Poems of Francis Ledwidge/Songs of the Fields/All-Hallows Eve

ALL-HALLOWS EVE
The dreadful hour is sighing for a moon To light old lovers to the place of tryst, And old footsteps from blessed acres soon On old known pathways will be lightly prest; And winds that went to eavesdrop since the noon, Kinking at some old tale told sweetly brief, Will give a cowslick to the yarrow leaf, And sling the round nut from the hazel down.
​And there will be old yarn balls, and old spells In broken lime-kilns, and old eyes will peer For constant lovers in old spidery wells, And old embraces will grow newly dear. And some may meet old lovers in old dells, And some in doors ajar in towns light-lorn; But two will meet beneath a gnarly thorn Deep in the bosom of the windy fells.
Then when the night slopes home and white-faced day Yawns in the east there will be sad farewells; And many feet will tap a lonely way Back to the comfort of their chilly cells, ​And eyes will backward turn and long to stay Where love first found them in the clover bloom— But one will never seek the lonely tomb, And two will linger at the tryst alway.
* ↑ Provincially a kind of laughter.
* ↑ A curl of hair thrown back from the forehead: used metaphorically here, and itself a metaphor taken from the curl of a cow's tongue.
* ↑ Maidens on Hallows Eve pull leaves of yarrow, and, saying over them certain words, put them under their pillows and so dream of their true-loves.
* ↑ They also throw balls of yarn (which must be black) over their left shoulders into old lime-kilns, holding one end and then winding it in till they feel it somehow caught, and expect to see in the darkness the face of their lover.
* ↑ Also they look for his face in old wells.
# The Complete Poems of Francis Ledwidge/Songs of the Fields

Originally published in 1915.
SONGS OF THE FIELDS
* Introduction to Songs of the Fields
* Table of Contents