OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919/Infantry

INFANTRY
[Reprinted by permission of the Proprietors of Punch.]
IN Paris Town, in Paris Town—'twas 'neath an April sky— I saw a regiment of the line go marching to Versailles; When white along the Bois there shone the chestnut's waxen cells, And the sun was winking on the long Lebels, Flic flac, flic flac, on all the long Lebels!
The flowers were out along the Bois, the leaves were overhead, And I saw a regiment of the line that swung in blue and red; The youth of things, the joy of things, they made my heart to beat, And the quick-step lilting and the tramp of feet! Flic flac, flic flac, the tramping of the feet!
The spikèd nuts have fallen and the leaf is dull and dry Since last I saw a regiment go marching to Versailles; And what's become of all of those that heard the music play? They trained them for the Frontier upon an August day; Flic flac, flic flac, all on an August day!
​And some of them they stumbled on the slippery summer grass, And there they've left them lying with their faces to Alsace; The others—so they'd tell you—ere the chestnut's decked for spring, Shall march beneath some linden trees to call upon a King; Flic flac, flic flac, to call upon a King.
Patrick R. Chalmers
# A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919/In the Trenches

IN THE TRENCHES
AS I lay in the trenches Under the Hunter's Moon, My mind ran to the lenches Cut in a Wiltshire down.
I saw their long black shadows, The beeches in the lane, The grey church in the meadows And my white cottage—plain.
Thinks I, the down lies dreaming Under that hot moon's eye, Which sees the shells fly screaming And men and horses die.
And what makes she, I wonder, Of the horror and the blood, And what's her luck, to sunder The evil from the good?
'Twas more than I could compass, For how was I to think With such infernal rumpus In such a blasted stink?
But here's a thought to tally With t'other. That moon sees A shrouded German valley With woods and ghostly trees.
And maybe there's a river As we have got at home With poplar-trees aquiver And clots of whirling foam.
And over there some fellow, A German and a foe, Whose gills are turning yellow As sure as mine are so,
​Watches that riding glory Apparel'd in her gold, And craves to hear the story Her frozen lips enfold.
And if he sees as clearly As I do where her shrine Must fall, he longs as dearly, With heart as full as mine.
Maurice Hewlett
# A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919/In the Morning

IN THE MORNING
(Loos, 1915)
THE firefly haunts were lighted yet, As we scaled the top of the parapet; But the East grew pale to another fire, As our bayonets gleamed by the foeman's wire; And the sky was tinged with gold and grey, And under our feet the dead men lay, Stiff by the loopholed barricade; Food of the bomb and the hand-grenade; Still in the slushy pool and mud— Ah! the path we came was a path of blood, When we went to Loos in the morning.
A little grey church at the foot of a hill, With powdered glass on the window-sill. The shell-scarred stone and the broken tile, Littered the chancel, nave and aisle— Broken the altar and smashed the pyx, And the rubble covered the crucifix; This we saw when the charge was done, And the gas-clouds paled in the rising sun, As we entered Loos in the morning.
The dead men lay on the shell-scarred plain, Where Death and the Autumn held their reign— Like banded ghosts in the heavens grey The smoke of the powder paled away; Where riven and rent the spinney trees Shivered and shook in the sullen breeze, And there, where the trench through the graveyard wound, The dead men's bones stuck over the ground By the road to Loos in the morning.
The turret towers that stood in the air, Sheltered a foeman sniper there— They found, who fell in the sniper's aim, A field of death on the field of fame; ​And stiff in khaki the boys were laid To the sniper's toll at the barricade, But the quick went clattering through the town, Shot at the sniper and brought him down, As we entered Loos in the morning.
The dead men lay on the cellar stair, Toll of the bomb that found them there, In the street men fell as a bullock drops, Sniped from the fringe of Hulluch copse. And the choking fumes of the deadly shell Curtained the place where our comrades fell,— This we saw when the charge was done, And the East blushed red to the rising sun In the town of Loos in the morning.
Patrick MacGill
# A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919/Into Battle

INTO BATTLE
THE naked earth is warm with Spring, And with green grass and bursting trees Leans to the sun's gaze glorying, And quivers in the sunny breeze; And Life is Colour and Warmth and Light, And a striving evermore for these; And he is dead who will not fight; And who dies fighting has increase.
The fighting man shall from the sun Take warmth, and life from the glowing earth; Speed with the light-foot winds to run, And with the trees to newer birth; And find, when fighting shall be done, Great rest, and fullness after dearth.
All the bright company of Heaven Hold him in their high comradeship, The Dog-Star, and the Sisters Seven, Orion's Belt and sworded hip.
The woodland trees that stand together, They stand to him each one a friend; They gently speak in the windy weather; They guide to valley and ridges' end.
The kestrel hovering by day, And the little owls that call by night, Bid him be swift and keen as they, As keen of ear, as swift of sight.
The blackbird sings to him, "Brother, brother, If this be the last song you shall sing, Sing well, for you may not sing another; Brother, sing."
​In dreary, doubtful, waiting hours, Before the brazen frenzy starts, The horses show him nobler powers; O patient eyes, courageous hearts!
And when the burning moment breaks, And all things else are out of mind, And only Joy-of-Battle takes Him by the throat, and makes him blind,
Through joy and blindness he shall know, Not caring much to know, that still Nor lead nor steel shall reach him, so That it be not the Destined Will.
The thundering line of battle stands, And in the air Death moans and sings; But Day shall clasp him with strong hands, And Night shall fold him in soft wings.
Julian Grenfell
Flanders, April, 1915.
# A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919/Italy in Arms

ITALY
ITALY IN ARMS
OF all my dreams by night and day, One dream will evermore return, The dream of Italy in May; The sky a brimming azure urn Where lights of amber brood and burn; The doves about San Marco's square, The swimming Campanile tower, The giants, hammering out the hour, The palaces, the bright lagoons, The gondolas gliding here and there Upon the tide that sways and swoons.
The domes of San Antonio, Where Padua 'mid her mulberry-trees Reclines; Adige's crescent flow Beneath Verona's balconies; Rich Florence of the Medicis; Sienna's starlike streets that climb From hill to hill; Assisi well Remembering the holy spell Of rapt St. Francis; with her crown Of battlements, embossed by time, Stern old Perugia looking down.
​Then, mother of great empires, Rome, City of the majestic past, That o'er far leagues of alien foam The shadows of her eagles cast, Imperious still; impending, vast, The Colosseum's curving line; Pillar and arch and colonnade; St. Peter's consecrated shade, And Hadrian's tomb where Tiber strays; The ruins on the Palatine With all their memories of dead days.
And Naples, with her sapphire arc Of bay, her perfect sweep of shore; Above her, like a demon stark, The dark fire-mountain evermore Looming portentous, as of yore; Fair Capri with her cliffs and caves; Salerno drowsing 'mid her vines And olives, and the shattered shrines Of Pæstum where the grey ghosts tread, And where the wilding rose still waves As when by Greek girls garlanded.
But hark! What sound the ear dismays, Mine Italy, mine Italy? Thou that wert wrapt in peace, the haze Of loveliness spread over thee! Yet since the grapple needs must be, I who have wandered in the night With Dante, Petrarch's Laura known, Seen Vallombrosa's groves breeze-blown, Met Angelo and Raphael, Against iconoclastic might In this grim hour must wish thee well!
Clinton Scollard
# Alumni Oxonienses: the Members of the University of Oxford, 1500-1714/Bradshaw, John (5)

From volume 1 of the work.
​Bradshaw, John, B.D. from Emanuel Coll., Cambridge, 1663, incorp. 11 July, 1671, one of these names rector of St. Michael, Crooked Lane, 1640-71, and of St. George, Botolph Lane, 1664, as D.D. See Foster's Index Ecclesiasticus.
# Alumni Oxonienses: the Members of the University of Oxford, 1500-1714/Bradshaw, John (7)

From volume 1 of the work.
​Bradshaw, John, s. Alban, of Maidstone, Kent, pleb. Corpus Christi Coll., matric. 23 Feb., 1673-4, aged 15; scholar 20 April, 1674, expelled thence in July, 1677, for that he and Robert Neulin, another scholar, did endeavour to murder a senior fellow called John Wickes while sleeping; was found guilty and condemned to die 27 July following, but reprieved after a year's imprisonment; taught a petty school, turned Quaker, was a preacher among them, and turned papist when James II. came to the throne. See Ath., iv. 619; & D.N.B.
# Alumni Oxonienses: the Members of the University of Oxford, 1500-1714/Bradshaw, John (2)

From volume 1 of the work.
​Bradshaw, John (Bradshew), of Oxon, pleb. Magdalen Coll., matric. 2 July, 1585, aged 19; clerk 1585-97, B.A. 3 Dec., 1589, M.A. 9 July, 1595, one of these names rector of Edgcott, Northants, 1599, vicar of Crudwell, Wilts, 1599. See Foster's Index Ecclesiasticus & Bloxam, ii. 46.
# Alumni Oxonienses: the Members of the University of Oxford, 1500-1714/Bradshaw, John (4)

From volume 1 of the work.
​Bradshaw, John, arm. Magdalen Coll., matric. 1 April, 1656. See Foster's Inns of Court Reg.
# Alumni Oxonienses: the Members of the University of Oxford, 1500-1714/Bradshaw, John (8)

From volume 1 of the work.
​Bradshaw, John, pleb. Corpus Christi Coll., matric. 4 June, 1674.
# Alumni Oxonienses: the Members of the University of Oxford, 1500-1714/Bradshaw, John (3)

From volume 1 of the work.
​Bradshaw, John, of co. Worcester, pleb. Balliol Coll., matric. 13 Dec., 1617, aged 18; B.A. 8 Feb., 1619-20, one of these names vicar of Riby, co. Lincoln, 1622, and rector of Ashby-by-Partney 1623. See Foster's Index Ecclesiasticus.
# Alumni Oxonienses: the Members of the University of Oxford, 1500-1714/Bradshaw, John (6)

From volume 1 of the work.
​Bradshaw, John, s. John, of Lichfield, co. Stafford, p.p. Brasenose Coll., matric. 7 April, 1671, aged 16; B.A. 1674, fellow, M.A. 17 Jan., 1677-8, died senior fellow 3 June, 1686, buried 4th, admon. (at Oxford) granted 10 July. See Gutch, i. 381.
# Alumni Oxonienses: the Members of the University of Oxford, 1500-1714/Bradshaw, Nicholas

From volume 1 of the work.
​Bradshaw, Nicholas (Bradshew), of Bucks, pleb. Balliol Coll., matric. 6 Nov., 1590, aged 15; fellow, B.A. 21 April, 1594, M.A. 31 March, 1599, B.D. 29 Nov., 1605, 'author of' "Canticvm Evangelicvm Summam Sacri Evangellii Continens," London, 1635, 8vo.,' rector of St. Mildred, Bread Street, 1604, and of Ockham, Surrey, 1607, father of Robert 1635. See Foster's Index Ecclesiasticus.
# Alumni Oxonienses: the Members of the University of Oxford, 1500-1714/Bradshaw, Peter

From volume 1 of the work.
​Bradshaw, Peter, B.C.L. from St. John's Coll. 18 July, 1633, incorp. at Cambridge 1635, and possibly bar.-at-law, Gray's Inn, 1646, as 4th son of Godfrey, of Bradshaw, co. Derby. See Foster's Judges and Barristers.
# Alumni Oxonienses: the Members of the University of Oxford, 1500-1714/Bradshaw, Richard (1)

From volume 1 of the work.
​Bradshaw, Richard (Bradshow), of Bucks, pleb. Magdalen Hall, matric. 14 Oct., 1597, aged 18; B.A. 2 June, 1600, M.A. 15 Feb., 1602-3, one of these names vicar of Paull, Yorks, 1614. See Foster's Index Ecclesiasticus.
# Abroad with Mark Twain and Eugene Field/Jealousy in Lowland

MARK AND THE COSTERMONGERS
Jealousy in Lowland (Overheard near Billingsgate Market.)
"Hullo, how you gettin' on and how's your old man?"
"See 'ere, you remembers 'ow I looked atter 'im when he was that damn' ill and all the nourishments I got 'im. Well 'e got that strong again but 'e wouldn't go to work. So I says to 'im yesterday mornin' w'en 'e was a-sittin' over the fire smokin' his dirty pipe, 'Ain't you ever to go work no more?'
"What d'you think 'e says?
"'Ere,' he says, 'I 'ave bin a-thinkin'. Where did you get all dese 'ere nourishments from while I was sick? I do believe you had a boy. 'Ho is the man? I'll knock 'is damn' block off.'
"Now remember, maid, 'e never said a word while 'e was gettin' the nourishment down 'is gut, the beast, but afterwards 'e says dis 'ere to me. 'Ere's a beast for yer, girl."
Lady No. 2—"'Ere 'e's a-comin' along the corner. Let's scoot, maidie. 'E doesn't look good-natured at all, at all, this mornin'."
# Abroad with Mark Twain and Eugene Field/Kilties and the Lassie

KILTIES AND THE LASSIE
"I heard a good one on a young Scotchman, a fellow who was always trying to show off in kilties. By the way, Andy Carnegie told me about him. This young Scot, with some other chaps, went on a tramp of the lakes of Scotland, and young Douglas had a good time showing off his fine calves—talked about them and made comparisons with other well-known legs, of actresses, bishops, dancers, etc. (In England all bishops wear knickers, you know.)
"At night the boys put up at a rather dilapidated inn, neither clean nor promising other creature comforts. But the girl who waited on them, maid or scullion, was a dandy—blonde and blue-eyed, rosy-cheeked and sturdy of arm and leg.
"As she flitted in and out of the room, bringing whiskey and water, cheese, bread and dried fish—that was all the bill of fare afforded—the travelers' eyes followed her, and when she left the room there was many a knowing wink. Douglas got jealous of the attention bestowed on Miriam.
"'What is there to go daft over?' he demanded peevishly.
"'Well,' said they in chorus, 'for one thing, she has better legs than you, Douglas.'
"Douglas hotly denied the imputation. There was an argument, and it was finally agreed that the two be measured. If Douglas lost, he must pay for the night's reckoning.
​"Accordingly, Douglas was put to the tape, and the girl also. Miriam had a few more inches of calf, but the Scotchman was undaunted. 'Have you ever seen finer thighs than mine?' he boasted.
"The lad who had been doing the measuring got flustered, but the girl laughed:
"'Don't be afeerd, Laddie; the higher you go the bigger they grow. I'll be the winner.'
"And she was," said Mark, with a chuckle of evident approval.
# Abroad with Mark Twain and Eugene Field/Eugene Field and Northern Lore

EUGENE FIELD AND NORTHERN LORE
While in London Eugene Field was always talking about the Orkney Islands, the dreariest, foggiest, most uninteresting patches of land in the wet you want to see. He had discovered somehow that Queen Mary of Scots had created that brute Bothwell, duke of Orkney, a title reserved for members of the reigning family. Hence her bestowal of the title helped to emphasize still more the hatred of the nobles against her husband. He chewed the matter over for a month, then one rainy afternoon, at the Cafe Royal, he got it off his chest.
"I want to go to the Orkney Islands to find traces of Bothwell and perhaps get a new angle on that fearless lass—as fearless as she was vindictive—Mary. When the Queen was taken prisoner, Bothwell made for the Orkneys and chose one of the smaller islands to assemble a piratical navy. Instead of stealing queens, he meant to steal goods and chattels of merchantmen passing the Northern Seas and the Channel. He had been a pirate before Mary took him up and was a robber baron by birth. Wonder if his remains rest in the Orkneys or at the bottom of the sea."
"He was buried in some small Danish seaboard town and in a church at that."
"Perhaps he died in the odor of sanctity," laughed Gene; "that would make it only the ​more interesting. Anyhow from the Orkneys I can easily get to Denmark and from there I can almost swim over to Sweden. I want to dig deep into Northern lore—there are unexplored tons of it, full of the most sublime poetry, and when I return to America and have time to look over my notes, there will be something doing, I promise you, my boy."
Returning to Bothwell. Field asked:
"By the way, I read somewhere that Mary was divorced from Bothwell while in English captivity."
"If you can get hold of the Vatican records about that divorce," I answered, "the fortune of your book amongst scholars is made. What do you suppose was the cause of the divorce granted by the Roman Court?"
"Why, the murder of Mary's second husband, the Earl of Darnley, at which she and Bothwell had connived."
"Wrong."
"Or the fact that Bothwell was a Protestant, a heretic."
"Wrong again."
"Then because Bothwell was still the husband of Ann Thorssen when he married the Queen."
"Wrong the third time. The divorce was granted on evidence that Bothwell had intercourse with Mary before marriage."
​One of these Northern lore stories Field wrote for a little book of Christmas tales, but having been unable to carry out his intention as above set forth, the yarn was of small account. It lacked local color and the naturalness that made most of his stories so delightful.
# Abroad with Mark Twain and Eugene Field/Field's Library of Humor

FIELD'S LIBRARY OF HUMOR
While in Germany, Gene had read up on ideas of humor, and entertained the notion that a "History of Humor" would prove a good seller. The book was to start with "The Smile," such chapters to follow as: "Feeling Good;" "Pleasant Thoughts;" "Why We Laugh Over the Ridiculous?" "Whims;" "Practical Jokes;" "Fixed Ideas;" "Naiveté;" "Blue-stockings;" "Old Maids," and so forth.
He jotted these chapters down on the marble top of our table in the Cafe Royal, and I copied the list. I think the above is pretty complete.
# Abroad with Mark Twain and Eugene Field/His Portrait—a Mirror

HIS PORTRAIT—A MIRROR
"People wonder why I spend so much time abroad," said Mark Twain at a little luncheon party in Vienna, where young wine, fresh from the vat, circulated freely. "One of the reasons is that I have no doubles in foreign countries, while in the States I had notice served on me twice a month on the average that I look exactly like Mr. Cobbler Smith or Mr. Bricklayer Brown. I was told they had the very same warts, in the very same places, where I sport them—accuracy or imagination, which? The day before I left New York I got a letter of that sort and, having booked passage and nothing to fear, I made bold to answer it.
"'My dear Sir,' I wrote. 'I was so much impressed by the resemblance that I bear your face, feet, hands, mustache, eyelids, ears, hair, eyes, eyebrows, cheeks, and other things, that I had the portrait of yourself you so kindly enclosed framed, and hereafter I shall use it in place of a mirror when I shave.'"
"Wife never saw that letter," added Mark. "She was packing."
# Abroad with Mark Twain and Eugene Field/Genius in Extremis

GENIUS IN EXTREMIS
When we were about to pass the French Embassy in Berlin one afternoon, Mark dragged me across the street, saying:
"See those horses? That Kaiser is in there, making love to the Ambassador's wife. I don't want to meet him as he comes out or when he is thrown out, as he ought to be."
At that moment a very distinguished English-looking gentleman passed us in a cab, raising his hat to Mark.
"Do you know him?*' asked Mark.
"I have seen him in Fleet Street, I believe, but I don't know where to put him. As you know, my eyes don't travel far these days."
"Why," said Mark, "this is 'Labby' (Labouchere) of London 'Truth,' the Baron-maker. I call him that because he actually put hundreds of barons into the world, if not into the peerage—namely, when he acted as Secretary of the British Embassy in Paris and had the issuing of passports in hand. Suppose John Smith and Mary Smith, British subjects, toddled in and asked for their papers. Labby would look them over carefully and if their persons and address lent itself to the scheme, would make out the paper for 'Sir John' and 'Lady Mary.' Of course the people stuck to the title, acquired under the government seal, for the ​rest of their lives. Indeed, most of the Labby-created nobles by and by gained popular recognition as the real thing—baronets and baronesses. On Labby 's part it was all fun—burlesque pure and simple. Himself a noble by birth, he thought the nobility a stupid and useless institution these days, and if the prime minister—a commoner—could make dukes and princes, why could not he, Labby, at least make Sirs and Ladies? But of course when the government got wise to it, Labby got the sack. Just the same, he's the smartest Englishman I've met. By Jingo, I would like to hear his last words on this planet of ours even as I would like to have heard Heine's grand: 'Never mind my sins, God will forgive them. Forgiving is his business.'"
Of the pair of geniuses, Mark died first (April 21, 1910), and both left characteristic utterances. Mark said to his physician:
"Good-by. If we meet——"
Labouchere, shortly before his end, had been lectured by a sister or brother on the godless life he had led and had been assured that, if God didn't take pity on him, he would certainly go to a hot place. An hour or so after listening to these comforting remarks, Labouchere had what Twain called on another occasion a "fair wind for Paradise," i.e., he was dying and knew it. Now ​it happened that during the last half-minute of his life a spirit lamp in the next room exploded with a loud bang. Labouchere raised his head a bit and said feebly:
"What—already?"
One more gasp and he was dead. How Mark would have enjoyed Labby's: "What, already?"
# A Woman Scaly & a Man all Hairy

* information about this edition.
* sister projects: Wikidata item.
From Notebook c.1808-1811 p.93. See also: Satiric verses and epigrams.

#### Edited text:

92
  A Woman Scaly & a Man all Hairy
Is such a Match as he who dares
Will find the Woman's Scales Scrape off the Man's Hairs.
________________________________________

#### The original text:

A Woman Scaly & a Man all Hairy
Is such a Match as he who dares
Will find the Womans Scales Scrape off the Mans Hairs
________________________________________

## Notes

* ↑ "Blake Complete Writings", ed. Geoffrey Keynes, pub. OUP 1966/85, p. 559.
* ↑ "The Complete Poetry & Prose of William Blake", ed. by David V. Erdman, Anchor Books, 1988, p. 517.
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
# A Woman's History

From "The Hour of Magic", 1922
When Mary Price was five years old,  And had a bird that died, She laid its body under flowers;  And called her friends to pray to God, And sing sad hymns for hours.
When she, before her fifteenth year,  Was ruined by a man, The neighbours sought him out, and said -  'You'll come along and marry her, Or hang till you are dead.'
When they had found the child he wronged,  And playing with her doll, I'll come along with you.' said she -  'But I'll not marry anyone Unless my doll's with me.'
With no more love's heat in her than  The wax upon her arm; With no more love-light in her eyes  Than in the glass eyes of her doll - Nor wonder, nor surprise.
When Mary Price was thirty-five,  And he was lying dead, She wept as though her heart would break:  But neighbours winked to see her tears Fall on a lover's neck.
Now, Mary Price is seventy-five,  And skinning eels alive: She, active, strong, and full of breath,  Has caught the cat that stole an eel, And beaten it to death.
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