OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Swope v. Leffingwell

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United States Supreme Court
105 U.S. 3
Swope v. Leffingwell
ERROR to the Supreme Court of the State of Missouri.
This was a suit brought in the Circuit Court of St. Louis County, Missouri, against Leffingwell and the other defendants, to restrain and enjoin the sale of certain real estate in the city of St. Louis, under a deed of trust executed to secure the payment of a promissory note whereof the Atlas National Bank of Boston became the purchaser. The case was ultimately determined by the Supreme Court of the State reversing the decrees of the subordinate courts, and directing that the bill be dismissed. Swope sued out this writ of error.
A motion was made to dismiss the writ for want of jurisdiction, upon the ground that there was no Federal question involved; to which was united a motion to affirm.
Mr. Philip Phillips in support of the motions.
Mr. E. B. Sherzer, contra.
MR. CHIEF JUSTICE WAITE 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 Black Cat (magazine)/Volume 1/Number 5

The Black Cat
February 1896.
| The Mysterious Card, | Cleveland Moffett. |
| Tang-u, | Lawrence E. Adams. |
| The Little Brown Mole, | Clarice Irene Clinghan. |
| A Telepathic Wooing, | James Buckham. |
| The Prince Ward, | Claude M. Girardeau. |
| A Meeting of Royalty, | Margaret Dodge. |
THE SHORTSTORY PUBLISHING CO. 144 HIGH ST., BOSTON, MASS.
№ 5. Copyright, 1895 by The Shortstory Publishing Co.
The Black Cat
A Monthly Magazine of Original Short Stories.
Entered at the Post-Office at Boston, Mass., as second-class matter.
IMPORTANT.—The entire contents of this magazine are covered by copyright and publishers everywhere are cautioned against reproducing any of the stories, either wholly or in part.
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 Black Cat (magazine)/Volume 1/Number 3

December 1895.
The Great Star Ruby.
Barnes MacGreggor.
The Interrupted Banquet.
René Bache.
The Archangel.
James Q. Hyatt.
Asleep at Lone Mountain.
H.D.Umbstaetter.
Kootchie.
Harold Kinsabby.
Frazer's Find.
Roberta Littlehale.
THE SHORTSTORY PUBLISHING CO. 144 HIGH ST., BOSTON, MASS.
№ 3. Copyright, 1895 by The Shortstory Publishing Co.
The Black Cat
A Monthly Magazine of Original Short Stories.
Entered at the Post-Office at Boston, Mass., as second-class matter.
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/A Nursery Rhyme

A Nursery Rhyme.
Ba loo! my bonnie lammie, An' I'll sing you a bit sang; An' I'll tak' tent, my hinny, That naething sall you wrang. Your wee bit bed is saft an' warm, For it was made by me An' ye are lyin' safe frae harm Aneath a mither's e'e.
Ba loo! my sweet wee dawtie, This is your time o' spring, When a' is sweet, an' fresh, an' pure— Nae guilt the heart to sting. O, lang in innocence remain, An' safe at hame abide; An' still uphaud by virtuous deeds A mither's honest pride!
Ba loo! ye laughin' rogie! Ye ha'e your daddie's e'e, Sae sparklin' an' sae winsome— His glance, sae sweet and slee. Like him aye may ye grow, till meet To mingle amang men; But his sair toils an' sorrows I pray you ne'er may ken!
Sleep soun', my winsome laddie! Your daddie 's on the sea— He 's toilin' late an' early For bread to you an' me. ​Hale nights I lie an' listen Wi' feelings lane and drear; An' whan I hear the risin' storm I'm like to swarf wi' fear.
But while the win's are whistlin' Wi' wild an' eerie tune, For my dear Jamie's safety I look to Ane aboon; For He can calm the stormy win', An' still the ragin' sea, An' bring again my dear gudeman To my sweet bairn and me.
# The Book of Scottish Song/'Neath the wave

’Neath the wave.
[Written by Daniel Weir to a Gaelic air.]
'Neath the wave thy lover sleeps, And cold, cold is his pillow; O'er his bed no maiden weeps, Where rolls the white billow. And though the winds have sunk to rest Upon the ocean's troubled breast, Yet still, oh still there's left behind A restless storm in Ellen's mind.
Her heart is on yon dark'ning wave, Where all she lov'd is lying, And where around her William's grave, The sea-bird is crying. And oft on Jura's lonely shore, Where surges beat and billows roar, She sat—but grief has nipt her bloom, And there they made young Ellen's tomb.
# The Book of Scottish Song/A Lassie Fair

A Lassie Fair.
[Captain Charles Gray, R, M.—Air, "For a' that, and a' that."]
A Lassie fair—the deil-may-care— Ance lichtlied me and a' that, And though I'm poor, you may be sure, I didna like to claw that; For a' that, and a' that, I'm hearty still for a' that, I gat the slight, I took it light, And that's the way to thraw that.
Gif they should nick you wi' this trick, Ne'er break your heart and a' that, Just glower about, you'll find ane out, Will ease your pain and a' that; And a' that, and a' that, Your sighs and sabs, and a' that, Sae never dwine about ae quean, There's plenty yet for a' that!
Nane but a fool spurns nature's rule, To love and wed, and a' that; Or gin a lass to him proves fause, Tak's to his bed, and a' that; And a' that, and a' that, Nae doctor's drugs, and a' that, Will ever prove a cure for love, Like kiss again, and a' that!
Gif I can find ane to my mind, My heart and hand, and a' that, To her I'll gi'e, baith frank and free, They're my delight for a' that; For a' that, and a' that; They're dear to me, for a' that, I lo'e them still, and ever will, Though ane did jilt, and a' that.
# The Book of Scottish Song/'Twas nae her bonnie blue e'e

’Twas nae her bonnie blue e’e.
[Burns.—Tune, "Laddie, lie near me."]
'Twas nae her bonnie blue e'e was my ruin; Fair chough she be, that was ne'er my undoin': 'Twas the dear smile when naebody did mind us, 'Twas the bewitching, sweet, stown glance o' kindness.
Sair do I fear that to hope is denied me, Sair do I fear that despair maun abide me; But though fell fortune should fate us to sever, Queen shall she be in my bosom for ever.
Mary, I'm thine wi' a passion sincerest, And thou hast plighted me love o' the dearest! And thou art the angel that never can alter; Sooner the sun in his motion shall falter.
# The Book of Scottish Song/'Twas summer tide

'Twas summer tide.
[Written by John Grieve, to the tune of "Polwarth on the Green." Mr. Grieve was a hat manufacturer in Edinburgh, of literary tastes, who will always be remembered as one of the Ettrick Shepherd's earliest and kindest friends and patrons. Hogg dedicates Mador of the Moor to him, and also introduces him as one of the competing minstrels in the Queen's Wake. His death took place in 1836, long after he had retired from business.]
'Twas summer tide; the cushat sang His am'rous roundelay; And dews, like cluster'd diamonds, hang On flower and leafy spray. The coverlet of gloaming gray On every thing was seen, When lads and lasses took their way To Polwarth on the green.
The spirit-moving dance went on, And harmless revelry Of young hearts all in unison, Wi' love's soft witcherie; Their hall the open-daisied lea, While frae the welkin sheen, The moon shone brightly on the glee At Polwarth on the green.
Dark een and raven curls were there, And cheeks of rosy hue, And finer forms, without compare, Than pencil ever drew; But ane, wi' een of bonnie blue, A' hearts confess'd the queen, And pride of grace and beauty too, At Polwarth on the green.
The miser hoards his golden store, And kings dominion gain; While others in the battle's roar For honour's trifles strain. Away, such pleasures! false and vain; Far dearer mine have been, Among the lowly rural train, At Polwarth on the Green.
# The Book of Scottish Song/A Lassie's Wonders

A Lassie’s Wonders.
[Edward Polin.—Here first printed.]
A' kin's o' lads an' men I see, The youngest an' the auldest— The fair, the dark—the big, the wee— The blatest and the bauldest; An' mony a laughin', canty ane, An' mony a coxin sly man— Hech sirs!—'mang a' the lads that rin, I won'er wha'll be my man!
I won'er whar he is the noo— I won'er gin he 's near me, An' whar we'll meet at first, an' hoo, An' whan he'll come to speer me. I won'er gin he kens the braes, The bonnie braes whar I ran— Was't there he leeved his laddie days? —I won'er wha'll be my man!
O gudesake! hoo I wish to ken The man that I'm to marry, The ane amang sae mony men:— I wish I kent a fairy, Or ony body that can see A far'er gate than I can— I won'er wha the chiel's to be— I won'er wha'll be my man!
But losh na! only hear to me, It's neither wise nor bonnie, In asking wha the lad may be— I'll maybe ne'er get ony; But if for me indeed there's ane, I think he's but a shy man To keep me crying late an' sune "I won'er wha'll be my man!"
# The Book of Scottish Song/A Lullaby

A Lullaby.
[Alex. A. Ritchie.]
O safely sleep, my bonnie bairn! Rock'd on this breast o' mine; The heart that beats sae sair within, Will not awaken thine.
Lie still, lie still, ye canker'd thoughts! That such late watches keep; An' if ye break the mother's heart, Yet let the baby sleep.
Sleep on, sleep on, my ae, ae bairn! Nor look sae wae on me, As if ye felt the bitter tear That blin's thy mother's e'e.
Dry up, dry up, ye saut, saut tears, Lest on my bairn ye dreep; An' break in silence, waefu' heart, An' let my baby sleep.
# The Book of Scottish Song/'Twas na her bonnie blue e'e

'Twas na her bonnie blue e'e.
[Written by Burns for Thomson's collection, to the tune of "Laddie, lie near me."]
'Twas na her bonnie blue e'e was my ruin; Fair though she be, that was ne'er my undoin'
'Twas the dear smile when naebody did mind us, 'Twas the bewitching, sweet, stown glance o' t kindness.
Sair do I fear that to hope is denied me, Sair do I fear that despair maun abide me; But though fell fortune should fate us to sever, Queen shall she be in my bosom for ever.
Mary, I'm thine wi' a passion sincerest, And thou hast plighted me love o' the dearest! And thou'rt the angel that never can alter, Sooner the sun in his motion shall follow.
# The Book of Scottish Song/A' body's like to be married

A' body's like to be married.
[We find the original of this in the Scots Magazine for July, 1802, where it is signed "Duncan Gray." There are some verbal differences between the old copy and the present.]
As Jenny sat down wi' her wheel by the fire, An' thought o' the time that was fast fleein' by'er, She said to hersel' wi' a heavy hoch hie, Oh! a' body's like to be married but me.
My youthfu' companions are a' worn awa', And though I've had wooers mysel' ane or twa; Yet a lad to my mind I ne'er could yet see, Oh! a' body's like to be married but me.
There's Lowrie, the lawyer, would ha'e me fu' fain Who has baith a house an' a yard o' his ain: But before I'd gang to it I rather wad die, A wee stumpin' body! he'll never get me. ​There's Dickey, my cousin, frae Lunnun cam' down, Wi' fine yellow buskins that dazzled the town; But, puir deevil, he got ne'er a blink o' my e'e, Oh! a' body's like to be married but me.
But I saw a lad by yon saughie burn side, Wha weel wad deserve ony queen for his bride, Gin I had my will soon his ain I would be, Oh! a' body's like to be married but me.
I gied him a look, as a kind lassie should, My frien's, if they kenn'd it, would surely run wud; For tho' bonnieand guid, he's no worth a bawbee, Oh! a' body's like to be married but me.
'Tis hard to tak' shelter behint a laigh dyke, 'Tis hard for to tak' ane we never can like, 'Tis hard for to leave ane we fain wad be wi' Yet it is harder that a' should be married but me.
# The Book of Scottish Song/A Boy's Song

A Boy’s Song.
[James Hogg.]
Where the pools are bright and deep, Where the grey trout lies asleep, Up the river and o'er the lea, That's the way for Billy and me.
Where the blackbird sings the latest, Where the hawthorn blooms the sweetest, Where the nestlings chirp and flee, That's the way for Billy and me.
Where the mowers mow the cleanest, Where the hay lies thick and greenest; There to trace the homeward bee, That's the way for Billy and me.
Where the hazel bank is steepest, Where the shadow falls the deepest, Where the clustering nuts fall free, That's the way for Billy and me.
Why the boys should drive away Little sweet maidens from the play, Or love to banter and fight so well, That's the thing I never could tell.
But this I know, I love to play, Through the meadow, among the hay; Up the water and o'er the lea, That's the way for Billy and me.
# The Book of Scottish Song/A canty Sang

A canty Sang.
[Robert Gilfillan.—Tune, "The Laird o' Cockpen."]
A canty sang, O, a canty sang, Will naebody gi'e us a canty sang? There's naething keeps nights frae turning owre lang Like a canty sang, like a canty sang.
If folk wad but sing when they're gaun to flyte, Less envy ye'd see, less anger and spite; What saftens doun strife, and mak's love mair strang, Like a canty sang, like a canty sang? Like a canty sang, &c.
If lads wad but sing when they gang to woo, They'd come na aye hame wi' thoum i' their mou'; The chiel that wi' lasses wad be fu' thrang, Suld learn to lilt to them a canty sang. A canty sang, &c.
When fools become quarrelsome ower their ale, I'se gi'e ye a cure whilk never will fail,— When their tongues get short an' their arms get lang, Aye drown the din wi' a canty sang! A canty sang, &c.
I downa bide strife, though fond o' a spree, Your sair wordy bodies are no for me: A wee dribble punch, gif it just be strang, Is a' my delight, an' a canty sang!
A canty sang, O, a canty sang, Will naebody gi'e us a canty sang? There's naething keeps nights frae turning ower lang Like a canty sang, like a canty sang.
# The Book of Scottish Song/A red, red Rose

A red, red Rose.
[Written by Burns for Johnson's Museum. Burns says, "The tune of this song is in Neil Gow's first collection, and is there called Major Graham." See the following song.]
O, my luve's like a red red rose, That's newly sprung in June; O, my luve's like the melodie, That's sweetly play'd in tune.
As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, Sae deep in love am I; And I will love thee still, my dear, Till a' the seas gang dry.
Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear, And the rocks melt wi' the sun; I will love thee still, my dear, While the sands o' life shall run.
And fare thee weel, my only luve, And fare thee weel a while! And I will come again, my luve, Though it were ten thousand mile.
# The Book of Scottish Song/A cogie o' yill

A cogie o' yill.
[Written about the close of the last century by Andrew Sheriffs or Shirrefs, at one time editor of The Aberdeen Chronicle, and author of a Scottish pastoral, first printed at Aberdeen in 1787, and afterwards at Edinburgh in 1790, with the title of "Jamie and Bess." Sheriffs was by trade a bookbinder. Burns, in his third Northern Tour, speaks of him as "a little decrepid body, with some abilities." The air to the present song was composed by Robert Macintosh, an eminent violin player, who died in London in 1807.]
A cogie o' yill, And a pickle aitmeal, And a dainty wee drappie o' whiskey, Was our forefathers' dose. For to sweel down their brose, And keep them aye cheery and frisky, Then hey for the whiskey, and hey for the meal, And hey for the cogie, and hey for the yill, Gin ye steer a' thegither they'll do unco weel, To keep a chiel cheery and brisk aye.
When I see our Scots lads, Wi' their kilts and cockauds, That sae aften ha'e lounder'd our foes, man; I think to mysel', On the meal and the yill, And the fruits o' our Scottish kail brose, man. Then hey, &c. ​When our brave Highland blades, Wi' their claymores and plaids, In the field drive like sheep a' our foes, man; Their courage and pow'r— Spring frae this to be sure, They're the noble effects o' the brose, man. Then hey, &c.
But your spyndle-shank'd sparks, Wha sae ill fill their sarks, Your pale-visaged milksops and beaux, man; I think when I see them, 'Twere kindness to gi'e them—
A cogie o' yill or o' brose, man. Then hey, &c.
What John Bull despises, Our better sense prizes, He denies eatin' blanter ava, man; But by eatin' o' blanter. His mare's grown, I'll warrant her,
The manliest brute o' the twa, man. Then hey, &c.
# The Book of Scottish Song/A lassie cam' to our gate

A lassie cam' to our gate.
[The author of this song, and of several others which we shall have occasion to quote in the course of this work, was Robert Allan of Kilbarchan, in Renfrewshire. He was intimate with Tannahill and R. A. Smith, and wrote a number of pieces for the latter's "Scottish Minstrel" and other musical publications, some of which have become popular. He also published a collection of his poems at Glasgow in 1836. After spending a lengthened and much respected life in his native village, (his employment being that of a weaver and manufacturer's agent,) he was induced to emigrate to the United States of America, where some of his relations had established themselves. Accordingly, he sailed from Greenock, for New York, on the 28th April, 1841, but had not long landed in America when he was carried off by a bilious fever, under which he had been labouring during the latter portion of the passage. His death took place on the 7th June, 1841, exactly eight days after his arrival in New York. His funeral was attended by a number of his countrymen and of Americans. At the time of his death his age was about 67.]
A lassie cam' to our gate, yestreen, An' low she curtsied down; She was lovelier far an' fairer to see Than a' our ladies roun'.
O whare do ye wend, my sweet winsome doo? An' whare may your dwelling be? But her heart, I trow, was liken to break, An' the tear-drap dim'd her e'e. ​I ha'ena a hame, quo' the bonnie lassie— I ha'ena a hame nor ha', Fain here wad I rest my weary feet, For the night begins to fa'.
I took her into our tapestry ha', An' we drank the ruddy wine: An' aye I strave, but fand my heart Fast bound wi' love's silken twine.
I ween'd she might be the fairies' queen, She was sae jimp and sma'; And the tear that dim'd her bonnie blue e'e Fell owre twa heaps o' snaw.
O whare do ye wend, my sweet winsome doo? An' whare may your dwelling be? Can the winter's rain an' the winter's wind Blaw cauld on sic as ye?
I ha'ena a hame, quo' the bonnie lassie— I ha'ena a ha' nor hame; My father was ane o' "Charlie's" men, An' him I daurna name.
Whate'er be your kith, whate'er be your kin, Frae this ye mauna gae; An' gin ye'll consent to be my ain, Nae marrow ye shall ha'e.
Sweet maiden, tak' the siller cup, Sae fu' o' the damask wine, An' press it to your cherrie lip, For ye shall aye be mine.
An' drink, sweet doo, young Charlie's health, An' a' your kin sae dear, Culloden has dim'd mony an e'e Wi' mony a saut, saut tear.
# The Book of Scottish Song/A wet sheet

A wet sheet.
[Allan Cunningham.]
A wet sheet and a flowing sea, A wind that follows fast, And fills the white and rustling sail, And bends the gallant mast. And bends the gallant mast, my boys, While like the eagle free, Away the good ship flies, and leaves Old England on the lee.
O for a soft and gentle wind! I heard a fair one cry; But give to me the swelling breeze, And white waves heaving high The white waves heaving high, my lads, The good ship tight and free— The world of waters is our home, And merry men are we.
There's tempest in yon horned moon, And lightning in yon cloud; And hark the music, mariners! The wind is wakening loud. The wind is wakening loud, my boys, The lightning flashes free— The hollow oak our palace is, Our heritage the sea.
# The Book of Scottish Song/A Rose-bud

A Rose-bud.
[Written by Burns in 1787, in compliment to the daughter of his friend William Cruikshank, one of the masters of the High School, Edinburgh. Miss Cruikshank was the "very young lady" to whom the poet addressed the lines, beginning,
"Beauteous rose-bud, young and gay."
She was afterwards married to a Mr. Henderson in Jedburgh. The tune to the present song was composed by "Davie, a brither poet," that is, David Siller, who died at Irvine in 1830. It is called "The Rose-bud."]
A rose-bud by my early walk, Adown a corn-enclosed hawk, Sae gently bent its thorny stalk, All on a dewy morning. Ere twice the shades o' dawn are fled, In a' its crimson glory spread And drooping rich the dewy head, It scents the early morning.
Within the bush, her covert nest A little linnet fondly prest, The dew sat chilly on her breast Sae early in the morning. She soon shall see her tender brood, The pride, the pleasure o' the wood, Amang the fresh green leaves bedew'd, Awake the early morning.
So thou, dear bird, young Jeanny fair! On trembling string, or vocal air, Shall sweetly pay the tender care That tends thy early morning. So thou, sweet rose-bud, young and gay, Shalt beauteous blaze upon the day, And bless the parent's evening ray That watch'd thy early morning.
# The Book of Scottish Song/A famous man

A famous man.
[This song is introduced in the national opera of "Rob Roy." The words are taken, with some alterations, from a poem by Wordsworth, written on visiting Rob Roy's grave.]
A famous man was Robin Hood, The English ballad-singer's joy, But Scotland has a chief as good, She has, she has her bold Rob Roy.
A dauntless heart Macgregor shows, And wondrous length and strength of arm; He long has quell'd his Highland foes, And kept, and kept his friends from harm. A famous man, &c.
His daring mood protects him still, For this the robber's simple plan, That they should take who have the will, And they, and they should keep who can. A famous man, &c.
And while Rob Roy is free to rove, In summer's heat and winter's snow, The eagle he is lord above, And Rob, and Rob is lord below. A famous man, &c.
# The Book of Scottish Song/A weary lot is thine

A weary lot is thine.
[The song quoted above, we are told by Mr. C. K. Sharpe, was an especial favourite of Sir Walter Scott's, and he was delighted to hear it sung by his daughter, Mrs. Lockhart. In the following song, which occurs in "Rokeby," the author, it will be seen, borrows the last verse from the old Jacobite strain. He says, "The last verse is taken from the fragment of an old Scottish ballad, of which I only recollected two verses when the first edition of Rokeby was published. Mr. Thomas Sheridan kindly pointed out to me an entire copy of this beautiful song, which seems to express the fortunes of some follower of the Stuart family."]
A weary lot is thine, fair maid, A weary lot is thine! To pull the thorn thy brow to braid, And press the rue for wine. A lightsome eye, a soldier's mein, A feather of the blue, A doublet of the Lincoln green,— No more of me yon knew, my love! No more of me you knew.
This morn is merry June, I trow, The rose is budding fain; But it shall bloom in winter snow, Ere we two meet again. He turn'd his charger as he spake, Upon the river shore: He gave his bridle-reins a shake, Said, Adieu for evermore, my love! And adieu for evermore.
# The Book of Scottish Song/A steed, a steed

A steed, a steed.
[William Motherwell.]
A Steed! a steed of matchless speede! A sword of metal keene! Al else to noble heartes is drosse— Al else on earth is meane. The neighynge of the war-horse prowde, The rowleinge of the drum, ​The clangour of the trumpet lowde— Be soundes from heaven that come. And, oh! the thundering presse of knightes, Whenas their war-cryes swelle, May tole from heaven an angel bright, And rowse a fiend from hell.
Then mounte! then mounte, brave gallants all, And don your helmes amaine; Deathe's couriers, fame and honour, call Us to the fielde againe. No shrewish tears shall fill our eye When the sworde-hilt's in our hand; Hearte-whole we'll parte, and no whit sighe For the fayrest of the land. Let piping swaine, and craven wight, Thus weepe and puling crye; Our buisnesse is like men to fighte, And like to heroes, die!