OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# The Book of Scottish Song/Haud awa' 2

Haud awa'.
[This can be traced no farther back than to David Herd's collection, 1776. The author is unknown.—Tune, "Donald."]
O, will ye ha'e ta tartan plaid, Or will ye ha'e ta ring, matam? Or will ye ha'e ta kiss o' me? And tat's a pretty ting, matam! Haud awa', bide awa', Haud awa' frae me, Donald! I'll neither kiss nor ha'e a ring; Nae tartan plaids for me, Donald!
O, see ye not her ponnie progues, Her fecket-plaid, plue, creen, matam? Her twa short hose, and her twa spoigs, And a shoulter-pelt apeen, matam? Haud awa', bide awa', Haud awa' frae me, Donald! Nae shoulder-belts, nae trinkabouts, Nae tartan hose for me, Donald!
Her can pe show a petter hough Tan him tat wears ta croun, matam; Hersel' ha'e pistol and claymore, To fley ta Lallant loon, matam. Haud awa', haud awa', Haud awa' frae me, Donald For a' your houghs and warlike arms, You're no a match for me, Donald.
Hersel' ha'e a short coat, pi pocht No trail my feets at rin, matam; A cutty sark o' goot ham sheet, My motter she pe spin, matam. Haud awa', haud awa', Haud awa' frae me, Donald; Gae hame and hap your naked houghs, And fash nae mair wi' me, Donald.
Ye's ne'er pe pidden work a turn ' At ony kind o' spin, matam; But shug your laeno (child) in a scull, And tidel Highland sing, matam. Haud awa', haud awa', Haud awa' frae me, Donald Tour jogging sculls and Highland sang Will sound but harsh wi' me, Donald,
In ta morning, when him rise, Ye'se get fresh whey for tea, matam;
Sweet milk and ream as much you please, Far sheeper tan Pohea, matam. Haud awa', haud awa', Haud awa' frae me, Donald! I winna quit my morning's tea— Your whey will ne'er agree, Donald.
Haper Gaelic ye'se pe learn, And tat's ta ponny speak, matam; Ye'se get a cheese, and butter kirn: Come wi' me kin ye like, matam. Haud awa', haud awa', Haud awa' frae me, Donald! Your Gaelic and your Highland cheer Will ne'er gae down wi' me, Donald.
Fait, ye'se pe get a siller protch, Pe pigger tan ta moon, matam; Ye'se ride in currach 'stead o' coach, And wow put ye'll pe fine, matam. Haud awa', haud awa', Haud awa' frae me, Donald! For a' your Highland rarities, Ye're no a match for me, Donald.
What! 'tis ta way tat ye'll pe kind To a pretty man like me, matam! Sae lang's claymore hangs py my side I'll nefer marry tee, matam! O, come awa', come awa', Come awa' wi' me, Donald! I wadna quit my Highland man; Frae Lawlands set me free, Donald!
# The Book of Scottish Song/He is gone on the mountain

He is gone on the mountain.
[Sir Walter Scott.—From "The Lady of the Lake."]
He is gone on the mountain, He is lost to the forest, Like a summer dried fountain, When our need was the sorest.
The font, re-appearing, From the rain-drops shall borrow, But to us comes no cheering, To Duncan no morrow!
The hand of the reaper Takes the ears that are hoary,
But the voice of the weeper Walls manhood in glory. The autumn winds rushing Waft the leaves that are searest,
But our flower was in flushing, When blighting was nearest.
Fleet foot on the correl, Sage counsel in cumber, Hed band in the foray, How sound is thy slumber! Like the dew on the mountain, Like the foam on the river, Like the bubble on the fountain, Thou art gone, and for ever!
# The Book of Scottish Song/Heather Jock

Heather Jock.
[Air, "Donald Caird."]
Heather Jock's noo awa', Heather Jock's noo awa'; The muircock noo may crousely craw Since heather Jock's noo awa'.
Heather Jock was stark and grim, Faucht wi' a' would fecht wi' him; Swank and supple, sharp and thin, Fine for gaun against the win'. Tawnie face and tousie hair, In his cleading unco bare, Cursed and swore whene'er he spoke, Nane could equal heather Jock.
Jock kent ilka bore and bole, Could creep through a wee bit hole, Quietly pilfer eggs and cheese, Dunts o' bacon, skeps o' bees; Sip the kirn and steal the butter, Nail the hens without a flutter; Na! the watchfu' wily cock Durstna craw for Heather Jock.
Eppie Blaikie lost her goun, She coft sae dear at borough toun; Sandie Tamson's Sunday wig, Left the hoose to rin the rig; Jenny Baxter's blankets a', Took a thocht to slip awa'; An' a' the weans bit printed frocks— Wha was thief but Heather Jock?
Jock was nae religious youth, For at the priest he thraw'd his mouth, He wadna say a grace nor pray, But play'd his pipes on Sabbath day; Robbed the kirk o' baan and book, Everything would lift—he took; He didna lea the weather-cock, Sic a thief was Heather Jock.
Nane wi' Jock could draw a tricker, 'Mang the moor-fowl he was sicker, He watch'd the wild ducks at the springs, And hang'd the hares in hempen strings, Blass'd the burns and speer'd the fish, Jock had mony a dainty dish, The best o' moor-fowl and black-cock,
Aye graced the board o' Heather Jock.
Nane wi' Jock had ony say, At the neive or cudgel play, Jock for bolt nor bar e'er staid, Till ance the jail his courage laid, Then the judge, without delay, Sent him aff to Botany Bay, And bade him mind the laws he broke, And never mair play Heather Jock.
# The Book of Scottish Song/Henry

Henry.
[James Stirrat of Dairy, Ayrshire.—Air, "Roy's Wife of Aldivalloch."—Here printed for the first time.]
Can my dearest Henry leave me? Why, ah! why would he deceive me? Whence this cold and cruel change, That bids him thus forsake and grieve me?
Can he the hours of love forget, The stolen hours I'll mind for ever, When doun the burn we fondly met, And aften vow'd we ne'er should sever? Will my Henry then deceive me? Faithless laddie! can he leave me? Ne'er till now did fancy dream, My dearest laddie sae would grieve me.
And will he then me aye forsake? Must I for ever, ever lose him? And can he leave this heart to break, That swells and bursts within my bosom? Never, Henry, could I leave thee, Never could this heart deceive thee; Why then, laddie, me forsake, And sae wi' cruel absence grieve me?
# The Book of Scottish Song/Her blue rollin' e'e

Her blue rollin’ e’e.
[Hogg.—Tune, "Banks of the Devon."]
My lassie is lovely as May-day, adorning Wi' gowans an' primroses ilka green lee; Tho' sweet is the violet, new blown i' the morning, As tender an' sweet is her blue rollin' e'e. I say, what is whiter than snaw on the mountain? Or what wi' the red rose in beauty can vie? Yes, whiter her bosom than snaw on the mountain, And bonnie her face as the red rose can be.
See yon lowly cottage that stands by the wild wood, Hedged round wi' sweet briar and green willow tree; 'Twas yonder I spent the first days of my childhood, And first felt the power o' a love-rollin' e'e. Tho' soon frae my hame and my lassie I wander'd, Tho' lang I've been tossing on fortune's rough sea, Aye dear was the valley where Ettrick meander'd; Aye dear was the blink o' her blue rollin' e'e.
O for the evening, and O for the hour, When down by yon greenwood she promised to be; When quick as the summer dew dries on the flower, A' earthly affections and wishes wad flee. Let Art and let Nature display their proud treasure; Let Paradise boast o' what ance it could gi'e; As high is my bliss, and as sweet is my pleasure, In the heart-melting blink o' my lassie's blue e'e.
# The Book of Scottish Song/Her bonnie black e'e 1

Her bonnie black e'e.
[William Laidlaw, author of "Lucy's flitting."]
On the banks o' the burn while I pensively wander, The mavis sings sweetly, unheeded by me; I think on my lassie, her gentle mild nature, I think on the smile o' her bonnie black e'e.
When heavy the rain fa's, and loud loud the win' blaws, An' simmer's gay cleedin' drives fast frae the tree; I heedna the win" nor the rain when I think on The kind lovely smile o' my lassie's black e'e.
When swift as the hawk, in the stormy November, The cauld norlan' win' ca's the drift owre the lea; Though bidin' its blast on the side o' the mountain, I think on the smile o' her bonnie black e'e.
When braw at a weddin' I see the fine lasses, Tho' a' neat an' bonnie, they're naething to me; I sigh an' sit dowie, regardless what passes, When I miss the smile o' her bonnie black e'e.
When thin twinklin' sternies announce the grey gloamin', When a' round the ingle's sae cheerie to see; Then music delightfu', saft on the heart stealin', Minds me o' the smile o' her bonnie black e'e.
When jokin', an' laughin', the lave they are merry, Tho' absent me heart like the lave I maun be; Sometimes I laugh wi' them, but oft I turn dowie, An' think on the smile o' my lassie's black e'e.
Her lovely fair form frae my mind's awa' never, She's dearer than a' this hale warld to me; An' this is my wish, May I leave it, if ever She row on another her love-beaming e'e.
# The Book of Scottish Song/Her bonnie black e'e 2

Her bonnie black e'e.
Sweet was her look when she smiling sat by my side, Sweet was her song on the green banks of flowing Clyde; Sweet was her blush when she promised to be my bride, Sweeter the blink o' her bonnie black e'e.
Kiss'd I her rosy lips, o'er aye an' o'er again, Press'd I her to my breast more aye an' more again; But when her form frae my bosom she tore again, I sigh'd for the blink o' her bonnie black e'e.
Bein though my biggin' be, what joy is it a' to me, Hale though my haddin', nae pleasure is 't ava to me, Plenty seems painfu', when she is awa' frae me; I sigh for the sight o' her bonnie black e'e.
Oh! cruel fate, wilt thou never mair ease my care, Henry was faithfu', and Jeannie was fause and fair, Death, come and ease my pain, ne'er can I see her mair, Farewell the slight o' her bonnie black e'e.
# The Book of Scottish Song/He's owre the hills

He's owre the hills.
[Modern Jacobite song.]
He's owre the hills that I lo'e weel; He's owre the hills we darena name, He's owre the hills ayont Dumblane, Wha soon will get his welcome hame.
My father's gane to fight for him, My brithers winna bide at hame, My mither greets and prays for them, And 'deed she thinks they're no to blame. He's owre the hills, &c. ​The Whigs may scoff, the Whigs may jeer, But, ah! that luve maun be sincere, Which still keeps true whate'er betide, An' for his sake leaves a' beside. He's owre the hills, &c.
His right these hills, his right these plains; O'er Highland hearts secure he reigns; What lads e'er did, our lads will do: Were I a lad, I'd follow him too. He's owre the hills, &c.
Sae noble a look, sae princely an air, Sae gallant and bold, sae young and sae fair; Oh! did you but see him, ye'd do as we've done; Hear him but ance, to his standard you'll run. He's owre the hills, &c.
# The Book of Scottish Song/Her Name

Her Name.
[Music by Mr. James Ferguson, Edinburgh.—Here first printed.]
Her name! oh, her name would'st thou have me to tell? Ah no! from this bosom thou reav'st not the spell Which cheers it at ev'ning and glads it at morn, Howe'er by life's cares 'tis distracted and torn. A name which is sunlight and moonlight to me, I'll breathe 't to the night winds but not unto thee.
That name I shall teach the sweet streamlets to cry, And list till I hear the glad echoes reply; And, oft as it rises, the soft scented breeze Shall waft it away through the tall forest trees; Till linnets and thrushes, inspir'd by the theme, Shall sing like the fays only heard when we dream.
What joyous delight, in the calm ev'ning shade, To hear the lov'd name warbled thus through the glade; 'Twill steal o'er my brain like the warm summer air, When loaded with perfume of eglantines fair; I'll dream until even the starlets proclaim The dear words; but ah, I'll not tall thee her name!
W. G. B.
# The Boys and the Frogs

Perry index 606
* "Boys and Frogs", translated by Roger L'Estrange, in Fables of Æsop and Other Eminent Mythologists (1692)
* "The Boys and the Frogs", translated by George Fyler Townsend, in Three Hundred Æsop's Fables (1887)
* "The Boys and the Frogs", translated by Vernon Stanley Jones, in Æsop's fables: A New Translation (1912)
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 Boys of Bellwood School

THE BOYS OF
BELLWOOD SCHOOL
Or
Frank Jordan's Triumph
BY
FRANK V. WEBSTER
AUTHOR OF "TOM THE TELEPHONE BOY," "COMRADES OF THE SADDLE," "THE NEWSBOY PARTNERS," ETC.
ILLUSTRATED
NEW YORK
CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY
"WHERE IS THAT BRACELET YOU TOOK FROM MY STORE?"
Page 16.
Contents
| CHAPTER | CHAPTER | PAGE |
| I | Frank Jordan's Home | 1 |
| II | The Tinker Boy | 8 |
| III | The Diamond Bracelet | 16 |
| IV | Gill Mace | 23 |
| V | The Ruined House | 31 |
| VI | An Astonishing Clue | 39 |
| VII | The Confidence Man | 48 |
| VIII | Nipped in the Bud | 55 |
| IX | A Boy Guardian | 61 |
| X | An Obstinate Rebel | 68 |
| XI | Turning the Tables | 77 |
| XII | A Strange Happening | 86 |
| XIII | Some Mystery | 92 |
| XIV | The Row on the Campus | 99 |
| XV | Dark Hours | 105 |
| XVI | The Foot Race | 113 |
| XVII | The Tramp Again | 120 |
| XVIII | A Doleful "Uncle" | 125 ​ |
| XIX | A Clear Case | 131 |
| XX | Frank a Prisoner | 136 |
| XXI | A Queer Experience | 142 |
| XXII | A Startling Message | 162 |
| XXIII | Under Arrest | 177 |
| XXIV | Cleaning Up | 182 |
| XXV | Conclusion | 188 |
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
# The Book of Scottish Song/Dundee

Dundee.
[Written by Thomas Smibert to the old set of the air of "Dundee," as found in the Skene MS.]
Fare thee weel, thou bonnie river, Rowin' by my ain Dundee; Aft in days gane by for ever, Thou hast borne my love and me. Thou hast heard, in days departed, Vows that nane could hear but thee; Now thou seest me broken-hearted— Tay, adieu! adieu, Dundee!
On thy waves a light is fa'in', Ruddy as the rose in June; Some may trow it is the dawin' Glinting frae the lift abune: But I ken thou'rt only blushing That a maid so false could be! Like thy springs my tears are gushing— Tay, adieu! adieu, Dundee!
# The Book of Scottish Song/Emigrant's Death Song

Emigrant’s Death Song.
[The author of the two following songs, J. G. Cumming, M. D., is a native of Paisley. Dr. C. originated the first exclusively Scottish publication ever issued in America—the New York Scottish Journal. This journal he edited for nearly three years. It is now under the management of Dr. Paul, a native of Scotland. The songs have never hitherto appeared in any publication in this country.—Music by Miss B. G. Cumming.]
Farewell tae the burnie That wimples sae clearly, The rough bracken knowe, and the heather-clad brae, The auld haunted tower, Wi' its ivy-formed bower, And a' the loved scenes o' my life's early day.
And thee, my ain dearie— My heart aft was wearie Tae think I sae lang had been parted frae thee. Oh, think o' your lover, When cauld divits cover The bosom that aye beat sae warmly for thee.
And thee, my auld faither, Loved sisters and brother, And, mither! oh maun I say farewell tae thee, I left thee in sorrow, But oh, on the morrow I cherished the hope thee again I wad see.
Kind fate, can ye sever The cords that ha'e ever Bae fondly united these objects wi' me; Oh spare me, once spare me, An' to them restore me, For oh, 'twad be heaven amang them tae dee.
# The Book of Scottish Song/Duncan M'Cleary

Duncan M'Cleary.
Duncan M'Cleary, an' Janet his wife, Duncan M'Cleary, he play'd on the fife; Janet she dauncit, quhill she cried wearie, "Unco weel dauncit," quo' Duncan M'Cleary.
Duncan M'Cleary an' Janet M'Cleary, Duncan was blin', an' Janet was blearie, He was deafish beside, an' couldna' just hear aye; "There's nae muckle matter," quo' Janet M'Cleary.
Duncan M'Cleary an' Janet his wife, War peaceable bodies an' vitet a' strife; She rubbit his beard, an' he ca'ed her his dearie; O couthie was Duncan wi' Janet M'Cleary.
Duncan M'Cleary an' Janet his wife, They toitet an' toilet thegither through life; When Duncan was douff, Janet never was cheerie, Sae aesome was Janet an' Duncan M'Cleary.
Duncan M'Cleary an' Janet M'Cleary, Tho' lovin' an' sweet, the twa couldna wear aye; Sae Duncan he deet, and Janet grew drearie, An' soon stappit awa' after Duncan M'Cleary.
# The Book of Scottish Song/Eskdale Braes

Eskdale Braes.
[William Julius Mickle, translator of "The Lusiad."]
By the banks of the crystal-stream'd Esk, Where the Wauchope her yellow wave joins, Where the lambkins on sunny braes bask, And wild woodbine the shepherd's bower twines,
Maria, disconsolate maid, Oft sigh'd the still noontide away, Or by moonlight all desolate stray'd, While woeful she tuned her love lay:
Ah! no more from the banks of the Ewes My shepherd comes cheerly along; Broomholm and the Deans' banks refuse To echo the plaints of his song.
No more from the echoes of Ewes, His dog fondly barking I hear; No more the tir'd bark he pursues, And tells me his master draws near.
Ah! wae to the wars, and the pride Thy heroes, O Esk, could display, When with laurels they planted thy side, From France and from Spain borne away.
Oh! why did their honours decoy My poor shepherd lad from the shore? Ambition bewitch'd the vain boy,— And oceans between us now roar.
Ah! methinks his pale corpse floating by, I behold on the rude billows tost; Unburied his scatter'd bones lie,— Lie bleaching on some distant coast.
By this stream and the May-blossom'd thorn, That first heard his love tale, and his vows, My pale ghost shall wander forlorn, And the willow shall weep o'er my brows.
With the ghosts of the wars will I wail, In Warblaw woods join the sad throng, To Hallowe'en's blast tell my tale, As the spectres, ungrav'd, glide along.
Still the Ewes rolls her paly blue stream, Old Esk still her crystal tide pours, Still golden the Wauchope waves gleam, And still green, O Broomholm, are thy bow.
No: blasted they seem to my view, The rivers in red floods combine; The turtles their widowed notes coo, And mix their sad ditties with mine.
Discolour'd in sorrow's dim shade, All nature seems with me to mourn;— But why are these merry bells play'd? Can it be my dear Jamie's return? ​The woodlands all May-blown appear! The silver stream murmurs new charms! As my Jamie, sweet-smiling, draws near, And, all eager, I rush to his arms.
# The Book of Scottish Song/Dunoon

Dunoon.
[Thomas Lyle.—Dunoon is a favourite watering-place on the shore of the firth of Clyde, in Argyleshire. "The Glow-worm," says Mr. Lyle, "on mild summer evenings, especially after a shower of rain, is to be found in great abundance among the long grass and moss between Dunoon and the Holy-Loch, where the surrounding scenery renders this singular insect doubly interesting. The female is larger than the male, and emits a beautiful light (apparently phosphorescent, but not really so,) for the purpose of attracting the male; this issues from the four last rings of the abdomen: the male has a power of emitting a feeble light, but very disproportionate to that of the female. Two or three of these insects inclosed in a glass vase, will give a light sufficient to enable a perscm to read in the darkest night. There are fifty-two species of this insect scattered over the four quarters of the globe, of which two only are found in our own country, viz. the Glow-worm and the Fire-fly."]
See the glow-worm lits her fairy lamp, From a beam of the rising moon; On the heathy shore at evening fall, 'Twixt Holy-Loch, and dark Dunoon: Her fairy lamp's pale silvery glare, From the dew-clad, moorland flower, Invite my wandering footsteps there, At the lonely twilight hour. ​When the distant beacon's revolving light Bids my lone steps seek the shore, There the rush of the flow-tide's rippling wave Meets the dash of the fisher's oar; And the dim-seen steam-boat's hollow sound, As she sea-ward tracks her way; All else are asleep in the still calm night, And robed in the misty grey.
When the glow-worm lits her elfin lamp, And the night breeze sweeps the hill; It's sweet, on thy rock-bound shores, Dunoon, To wander at fency's will. Eliza! with thee, in this solitude, Life's cares would pass away, Like the fleecy clouds over grey Kilmun, At the wake of early day.
# The Book of Scottish Song/Earl March

Earl March.
[Thomas Campbell.]
Earl March look'd on his dying child, And smit with grief to view her— The youth, he cried, whom I exiled Shall be restored to woo her.
She's at the window many an hour, His coming to discover; And her love look'd up to Ellen's bower, And she look'd on her lover.
But ah! so pale, he knew her not, Though her smile on him was dwelling. And am I then forgot—forgot?— It broke the heart of Ellen. ​In vain he weeps, in vain he sighs, Her cheek is cold as ashes, Nor love's own kiss shall wake those eyes To lift their silken lashes.
# The Book of Scottish Song/Esabell

Esabell.
[James Murray.—Here first printed.—Tune, "The brier bush."]
O, weary fa' that little fairie, our Isabell— O, plague be on that wllfu' fairie, our Isabell; For although we like the lassie weel—and that she kens hersel'— Yet ower the border, right or wrang, will our Isabel.
O, we'll seldom get a sang at e'en, and scarce a tune ava, Sae we may sit and hing our lugs when she gangs awa'; For little Bessie winna croon, and Johnnie scarcely craw, They'll be sae dowf and dowie soon when she gangs awa'.
The sky that smiles sae fair at morn, ere night may be o'ercast; Sae our dearest pleasures fade away, and downa langer last. And it ser's us nought to sit and fret, whatever may befa'— But, guidsake, wha wad e'er ha'e thought o' her gaun awa'.
O, we've canker'd folk and canny folk in our house at hame, And some that scarce dow bide a joke in our house at hame; And we'd ower the border ane and a', if ever we heard tell That ony birkie daur'd to gloom at our Isabell.
O, weary fa' that little fairie, our Isabell— O, plague be on that wilfu' fairie, our Isabell; For although we like the gipsie mair than ony tongue can tell, Yet, ower the border, right or wrang, will our Isabell.
# The Black Riders & Other Lines/"Truth," said a traveller

This poem was published in 1905 in the volume The Black Rider & Other Lines.
"Truth," said a traveller, "Is a rock, a mighty fortress; Often have I been to it, Even to its highest tower, From whence the world looks black."
"Truth," said a traveller, "Is a breath, a wind, A shadow, a phantom; Long have I pursued it, But never have I touched The hem of its garment."
And I believed the second traveller; For truth was to me A breath, a wind, A shadow, a phantom, And never had I touched The hem of its garment.
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 Black Riders & Other Lines/A man went before a strange God

This poem was published in 1905 in the volume The Black Rider & Other Lines.
A man went before a strange God -- The God of many men, sadly wise. And the deity thundered loudly, Fat with rage, and puffing. "Kneel, mortal, and cringe And grovel and do homage To My Particularly Sublime Majesty."
The man fled.
Then the man went to another God -- The God of his inner thoughts. And this one looked at him With soft eyes Lit with infinite comprehension, And said, "My poor child!"
# The Black Riders & Other Lines/A god in wrath

This poem was published in 1905 in the volume The Black Rider & Other Lines.
A god in wrath Was beating a man; He cuffed him loudly With thunderous blows That rang and rolled over the earth. All people came running. The man screamed and struggled, And bit madly at the feet of the god. The people cried, "Ah, what a wicked man!" And -- "Ah, what a redoubtable god!"
# The Black Riders & Other Lines/A learned man came to me once

This poem was published in 1905 in the volume The Black Rider & Other Lines.
A learned man came to me once. He said, "I know the way, —come." And I was overjoyed at this. Together we hastened. Soon, too soon, were we Where my eyes were useless, And I knew not the ways of my feet. I clung to the hand of my friend; But at last he cried, "I am lost."