OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# The Book of Scottish Song/Gilderoy 1

Gilderoy.
[Thomas Campbell.]
The last, the fatal hour is come, That bears my love from me: I hear the dead note of the drum, I mark the gallows tree!
The bell has toll'd; it shakes my heart; The trumpet speaks thy name; And must my Gilderoy depart To bear a death of shame?
No bosom trembles for thy doom, No mourner wipes a tear; The gallows' foot is all thy tomb, The sledge is all thy bier.
Oh, Gilderoy! bethought we then So soon, so sad to part, When first in Roslin's lovely glen You triumph'd o'er my heart?
Your locks they glitter'd to the sheen, Your hunter-garb was trim, And graceful was the ribbon green That bound your manly limb!
Ah! little thought I to deplore Those limbs in fetters bound; Or hear upon the scaffold floor, The midnight-hammer sound!
Ye cruel, cruel, that combin'd The guiltless to pursue; My Gilderoy was ever kind, He could not injure you! ​A long adieu! but where shall fly Thy widow all forlorn, When every mean and cruel eye Regards my woe with scorn?
Yes! they will mock thy widow's tears, And hate thine orphan boy: Alas! his infant beauty wears The form of Gilderoy.
Then will I seek the dreary mound That wraps thy mouldering clay, And weep and linger on the ground, And sigh my heart away.
# The Black Man (Brown)/Frances Ellen Watkins

FRANCES ELLEN WATKINS.
Miss Watkins is a native of Baltimore, where she received her education. She has been before the public some years as an author and public lecturer. Her "Poems on Miscellaneous Subjects," published in a small volume, show a reflective mind and no ordinary culture. Her "Essay on Christianity" is a beautiful composition. Many of her poems are soul-stirring, and all are characterized by chaste language and much thought. The following is entitled
THE SLAVE MOTHER.
'Heard you that shriek? It rose So wildly on the air,
It seemed as if a burdened heart Was breaking in despair.
Saw you those hands so sadly clasped, The bowed and feeble head,
The shuddering of that fragile form, That look of grief and dread?
​Saw you the sad, imploring eye? Its every glance was pain,
As if a storm of agony Were sweeping through the brain.
She is a mother pale with fear; Her boy clings to her side.
And in her kirtle vainly tries His trembling form to hide.
He is not hers, although she bore For him a mother's pains;
He is not hers, although her blood Is coursing through his veins.
He is not hers, for cruel hands May rudely tear apart
The only wreath of household love That binds her breaking heart.
His love has been a joyous light That o'er her pathway smiled,
A fountain, gushing ever new, Amid life's desert wild.
His lightest word has been a tone Of music round her heart;
Their lives a streamlet blent in one— O Father, must they part?
They tear him from her circling arms, Her last and fond embrace;
O, never more may her sad eyes Gaze on his mournful face.
​No marvel, then, these bitter shrieks Disturb the listening air;
She is a mother, and her heart Is breaking in despair.
Miss Watkins's advice to her own sex on the selection of a husband should be appreciated by all.
Nay, do not blush! I only heard You had a mind to marry;
I thought I'd speak a friendly word; So just one moment tarry.
Wed not a man whose merit lies In things of outward show,
In raven hair or flashing eyes, That please your fancy so.
But marry one who's good and kind, And free from all pretence;
Who, if without a gifted mind, At least has common sense.
Miss Watkins is about thirty years of age, of a fragile form, rather nervous, keen and witty in conversation, outspoken in her opinions, and yet appears in all the simplicity of a child.
# The Black Man (Brown)/Elymas Payson Rogers

ELYMAS PAYSON ROGERS.
E. P. Rogers, a clergyman of the Presbyterian order, and pastor of a church at Newark, New Jersey, was a man of education, research, and literary ability. He was not a fluent and easy speaker, but he was logical, and spoke with a degree of refinement seldom met with. He possessed poetical genius of no mean order, and his poem on the "Missouri Compromise," which he read in many of the New England cities and towns in 1856, contains brilliant thoughts and amusing suggestions. The following on Truth is not without point:—
"When Truth is girded for the fight, And draws her weapons keen and bright, And lifts aloft her burnished shield, Her godlike influence to wield, ​If victory in that self-same hour Is not accomplished by her power, She'll not retreat nor flee away, But win the field another day. She will with majesty arise, Seize her traducers by surprise, And by her overwhelming might Will put her deadly foes to flight."
The allusion to the threat of the south against the north is a happy one, in connection with the rebellion.
"I'll show my power the country through, And will the factious north subdue; And Massachusetts shall obey, And yield to my increasing sway. She counts her patriotic deeds, But scatters her disunion seeds; She proudly tells us of the tea Sunk by her worthies in the sea, And then she talks more proudly still Of Lexington and Bunker Hill; But on that hill, o'er patriots' graves, I'll yet enroll my negro slaves. I may have trouble, it is true, But still I'll put the rebels through, And make her statesmen bow the knee, Yield to my claims, and honor me. And though among them I shall find The learned, the brilliant, and refined, If on me they shall e'er reflect, No senate chamber shall protect Their guilty pates and heated brains, From hideous gutta percha canes."
​The election of N. P. Banks, as speaker of the House of Representatives, is mentioned in the succeeding lines:—
"But recently the north drove back The southern tyrants from the track, And put to flight their boasting ranks, And gave the speaker's chair to Banks."
Mr. Rogers was of unmixed race, genteel in appearance, forehead large and well developed, fine figure, and pleasing in his manners. Anxious to benefit his race, he visited Africa in. 1861, was attacked with the fever, and died in a few days. No man was more respected by all classes than he. His genial influence did much to soften down the pro-slavery feeling which existed in the city where he resided.
# The Annotated "Ulysses"/Page 016

— All Ireland is washed by the gulfstream, Stephen said as he let honey trickle over a slice of the loaf.
Haines from the corner where he was knotting easily a scarf about the loose collar of his tennis shirt spoke:
— I intend to make a collection of your sayings if you will let me.
Speaking to me. They wash and tub and scrub. Agenbite of inwit. Conscience. Yet here’s a spot.
— That one about the cracked lookingglass of a servant being the symbol of Irish art is deuced good.
Buck Mulligan kicked Stephen’s foot under the table and said with warmth of tone:
— Wait till you hear him on Hamlet, Haines.
— Well, I mean it, Haines said, still speaking to Stephen. I was just thinking of it when that poor old creature came in.
— Would I make money by it? Stephen asked.
Haines laughed and, as he took his soft grey hat from the holdfast of the hammock, said :
— I don’t know, I’m sure.
He strolled out to the doorway. Buck Mulligan bent across to Stephen and said with coarse vigour :
— You put your hoof in it now. What did you say that for?
— Well? Stephen said. The problem is to get money. From whom? From the milkwoman or from him. It’s a toss up, I think.
— I blow him out about you, Buck Mulligan said, and then you come along with your lousy leer and your gloomy jesuit jibes.
— I see little hope, Stephen said, from her or from him.
Buck Mulligan sighed tragically and laid his hand on Stephen’s arm.
— From me, Kinch, he said.
In a suddenly changed tone he added :
— To tell you the God’s truth I think you’re right. Damn all else they are good for. Why don’t you play them as I do? To hell with them all. Let us get out of the kip.
He stood up, gravely ungirdled and disrobed himself of his gown, saying resignedly :
— Mulligan is stripped of his garments.
He emptied his pockets on to the table.
— There’s your snotrag, he said.

## Annotations

Reference to the Tenth Station of the Cross, Jesus is stripped of his garments.
Possibly an allusion to the Sixth Station of the Cross, Veronica wipes the face of Jesus. Recall the rag was used previously to wipe the blade that cleaned the face of BM certainly, and presumably cleaned his face directly when done.
# The Annotated "Ulysses"/Page 017

And putting on his stiff collar and rebellious tie, he spoke to them, chid- ing them, and to his dangling watchchain. His hands plunged and rummaged in his trunk while he called for a clean handkerchief. Agenbite of inwit. God, we’ll simply have to dress the character. I want puce gloves and green boots. Contradiction. Do I contradict myself? Very well then, I contradict myself. Mercurial Malachi. A limp black missile flew out of his talking hands.
— And there’s your Latin quarter hat, he said.
Stephen picked it up and put it on. Haines called to them from the doorway :
— Are you coming, you fellows?
— I’m ready, Buck Mulligan answered, going towards the door. Come out, Kinch. You have eaten all we left, I suppose. Resigned he passed out with grave words and gait, saying, wellnigh with sorrow :
— And going forth he met Butterly.
Stephen, taking his ashplant from its leaningplace, followed them out and, as they went down the ladder, pulled to the slow iron door and locked it. He put the huge key in his inner pocket.
At the foot of the ladder Buck Mulligan asked :
— Did you bring the key?
— I have it, Stephen said, preceding them.
He walked on. Behind him he heard Buck Mulligan club with his heavy bathtowel the leader shoots of ferns or grasses.
— Down, sir. How dare you, sir?
Haines asked :
— Do you pay rent for this tower?
— Twelve quid, Buck Mulligan said.
— To the secretary of state for war, Stephen added over his shoulder.
They halted while Haines surveyed the tower and said at last :
— Rather bleak in wintertime, I should say. Martello you call it?
— Billy Pitt had them built, Buck Mulligan said, when the French were on the sea. But ours is the omphalos.
— What is your idea of Hamlet? Haines asked Stephen.
— No, no, Buck Mulligan shouted in pain. I’m not equal to Thomas Aquinas and the fiftyfive reasons he has made to prop it up. Wait till I have a few pints in me first.
He turned to Stephen, saying as he pulled down neatly the peaks of his primrose waistcoat :

## Annotations

Ayenbite of Inwyt (or Remorse of Conscience), the title of a confessional prose work written in a Kentish dialect of Middle English, dated 1340.
Puce is a shade of red; combined with green possibly symbolic of Mulligan's ambivalent attitude to British/Irish relations.
Lines from Walt Whitman's Song of Myself (section 51): "Do I contradict myself?/ Very well then I contradict myself, . . ."
“And going forth, he wept bitterly” Matthew 26:75
Greek, literally navel; a religious stone artifact.
# The Annotated "Ulysses"/Page 019

He held up a forefinger of warning.
— If anyone thinks that I amn’t divine
             He’ll get no free drinks when I’m making the wine
             But have to drink water and wish it were plain
             That I make when the wine becomes water again.
He tugged swiftly at Stephen’s ashplant in farewell and, running forward to a brow of the cliff, fluttered his hands at his sides like fins or wings of one about to rise in the air, and chanted :
— Goodbye, now, goodbye. Write down all I said
             And tell Tom, Dick and Harry I rose from the dead.
             What’s bred in the bone cannot fail me to fly
             And Olivet’s breezy... Goodbye, now, goodbye.
He capered before them down towards the fortyfoot hole, fluttering his winglike hands, leaping nimbly, Mercury’s hat quivering in the fresh wind that bore back to them his brief birdlike cries.
Haines, who had been laughing guardedly, walked on beside Stephen and said :
— We oughtn’t to laugh, I suppose. He’s rather blasphemous. I’m not a believer myself, that is to say. Still his gaiety takes the harm out of it somehow, doesn’t it? What did he call it? Joseph the Joiner?
— The ballad of Joking Jesus, Stephen answered.
— O, Haines said, you have heard it before?
— Three times a day, after meals, Stephen said drily.
— You’re not a believer, are you? Haines asked. I mean, a believer in the narrow sense of the word. Creation from nothing and miracles and a personal God.
— There’s only one sense of the word, it seems to me, Stephen said.
Haines stopped to take out a smooth silver case in which twinkled a green stone. He sprang it open with his thumb and offered it.
— Thank you, Stephen said, taking a cigarette.
Haines helped himself and snapped the case to. He put it back in his sidepocket and took from his waistcoatpocket a nickel tinderbox, sprang it

## Annotations

The Mount of Olives in Jerusalem.
Based on The Song of the Cheerful (but slightly Sarcastic) Jesus by Oliver St. John Gogarty, the real life person that Buck Mulligan is based on.
# The Annotated "Ulysses"/Page 020

open too, and, having lit his cigarette, held the flaming spunk towards Stephen in the shell of his hands.
— Yes, of course, he said, as they went on again. Either you believe or you don’t, isn’t it? Personally I couldn’t stomach that idea of a personal God. You don’t stand for that, I suppose?
— You behold in me, Stephen said with grim displeasure, a horrible example of free thought.
He walked on, waiting to be spoken to, trailing his ashplant by his side. Its ferrule followed lightly on the path, squealing at his heels. My familiar, after me, calling Steeeeeeeeeeeephen. A wavering line along the path. They will walk on it tonight, coming here in the dark. He wants that key. It is mine, I paid the rent. Now I eat his salt bread. Give him the key too. All. He will ask for it. That was in his eyes.
— After all, Haines began...
Stephen turned and saw that the cold gaze which had measured him was not all unkind.
— After all, I should think you are able to free yourself. You are your own master, it seems to me.
— I am the servant of two masters, Stephen said, an English and an Italian.
— Italian? Haines said.
A crazy queen, old and jealous. Kneel down before me.
— And a third, Stephen said, there is who wants me for odd jobs.
— Italian? Haines said again. What do you mean?
— The imperial British state, Stephen answered, his colour rising, and the holy Roman catholic and apostolic church.
Haines detached from his underlip some fibres of tobacco before he spoke.
— I can quite understand that, he said calmly. An Irishman must think like that, I daresay. We feel in England that we have treated you rather unfairly. It seems history is to blame.
The proud potent titles clanged over Stephen’s memory the triumph of their brazen bells : et unam sanctam catholicam et apostolicam ecclesiam : the slow growth and change of rite and dogma like his own rare thoughts, a chemistry of stars. Symbol of the apostles in the mass for pope Marcellus, the voices blended, singing alone loud in affirmation : and behind their chant the vigilant angel of the church militant disarmed and menaced her heresiarchs. A horde of heresies fleeing with mitres awry : Photius and the brood of mockers
# The Annotated "Ulysses"/Page 023

His plump body plunged.
— We’ll see you again, Haines said, turning as Stephen walked up the path and smiling at wild Irish.
Horn of a bull, hoof of a horse, smile of a Saxon.
— The Ship, Buck Mulligan cried. Half twelve.
— Good, Stephen said.
He walked along the upwardcurving path.
                Liliata rutilantium.
                Turma circumdet.
                Jubilantium te virginum
The priest’s grey nimbus in a niche where he dressed discreetly. I will not sleep here tonight. Home also I cannot go.
A voice, sweettoned and sustained, called to him from the sea. Turning the curve he waved his hand. It called again. A sleek brown head, a seal’s, far out on the water, round.
Usurper.
# The Annotated "Ulysses"/Page 024

— You, Cochrane, what city sent for him?
— Tarentum, sir.
— Very good. Well?
— There was a battle, sir.
— Very good. Where?
The boy’s blank face asked the blank window.
Fabled by the daughters of memory. And yet it was in some way if not as memory fabled it. A phrase, then, of impatience, thud of Blake’s wings of excess. I hear the ruin of all space, shattered glass and toppling masonry, and time one livid final flame. What’s left us then?
— I forgot the place, sir. 279 B.C.
— Asculum, Stephen said, glancing at the name and date in the gorescarred book.
— Yes, sir. And he said : Another victory like that and we are done for.
That phrase the world had remembered. A dull ease of the mind. From a hill above a corpsestrewn plain a general speaking to his officers, leaned upon his spear. Any general to any officers. They lend ear.
— You, Armstrong, Stephen said. What was the end of Pyrrhus?
— End of Pyrrhus, sir?
— I know, sir. Ask me, sir, Comyn said.
— Wait. You, Armstrong. Do you know anything about Pyrrhus?
A bag of figrolls lay snugly in Armstrong’s satchel. He curled them between his palms at whiles and swallowed them softly. Crumbs adhered to the tissues of his lips. A sweetened boy’s breath. Welloff people, proud that their eldest son was in the navy. Vico Road, Dalkey.
— Pyrrhus, sir? Pyrrhus, a pier.
All laughed. Mirthless high malicious laughter. Armstrong looked round
# The Annotated "Ulysses"/Page 015

— No, thank you, sir, the old woman said, slipping the ring of the milkcan on her forearm and about to go.
Haines said to her:
— Have you your bill? We had better pay her, Mulligan, hadn’t we?
Stephen filled the three cups.
— Bill, sir? she said, halting. Well, it’s seven mornings a pint at two pence is seven twos is a shilling and twopence over and these three mornings a quart at fourpence is three quarts is a shilling and one and two is two and two, sir.
Buck Mulligan sighed and having filled his mouth with a crust thickly buttered on both sides, stretched forth his legs and began to search his trouser pockets.
— Pay up and look pleasant, Haines said to him smiling.
Stephen filled a third cup, a spoonful of tea colouring faintly the thick rich milk. Buck Mulligan brought up a florin, twisted it round in his fingers and cried:
— A miracle!
He passed it along the table towards the old woman, saying:
— Ask nothing more of me, sweet. All I can give you I give.
Stephen laid the coin in her uneager hand.
— We’ll owe twopence, he said.
— Time enough, sir, she said, taking the coin. Time enough. Good morning, sir.
She curtseyed and went out, followed by Buck Mulligan’s tender chant:
— Heart of my heart, were it more,
             More would be laid at your feet.
He turned to Stephen and said:
— Seriously, Dedalus. I’m stony. Hurry out to your school kip and bring us back some money. Today the bards must drink and junket. Ireland expects that every man this day will do his duty.
— That reminds me, Haines said, rising, that I have to visit your national library today.
— Our swim first, Buck Mulligan said.
He turned to Stephen and asked blandly:
— Is this the day for your monthly wash, Kinch?
Then he said to Haines:
— The unclean bard makes a point of washing once a month.
# The Annotated "Ulysses"/Page 018

— You couldn’t manage it under three pints, Kinch, could you?
— It has waited so long, Stephen said listlessly, it can wait longer.
— You pique my curiosity, Haines said aimiably. Is it some paradox?
— Pooh! Buck Mulligan said. We have grown out of Wilde and paradoxes. It’s quite simple. He proves by algebra that Hamlet’s grandson is Shakespeare’s grandfather and that he himself is the ghost of his own father.
— What? Haines said, beginning to point at Stephen. He himself?
Buck Mulligan slung his towel stolewise round his neck and, bending in loose laughter, said to Stephen’s ear :
— O, shade of Kinch the elder! Japhet in search of a father!
— We’re always tired in the morning, Stephen said to Haines. And it is rather long to tell.
Buck Mulligan, walking forward again, raised his hands.
— The sacred pint alone can unbind the tongue of Dedalus, he said.
— I mean to say, Haines explained to Stephen as they followed, this tower and these cliffs here remind me somehow of Elsinore. That beetles o’er his base into the sea, isn’t it?
Buck Mulligan turned suddenly for an instant towards Stephen but did not speak. In the bright silent instant Stephen saw his own image in cheap dusty mourning between their gay attires.
— It’s a wonderful tale, Haines said, bringing them to halt again.
Eyes, pale as the sea the wind had freshened, paler, firm and prudent. The seas’ ruler, he gazed southward over the bay, empty save for the smokeplume of the mailboat, vague on the bright skyline, and a sail tacking by the Muglins.
— I read a theological interpretation of it somewhere, he said bemused. The Father and the Son idea. The Son striving to be atoned with the Father.
Buck Mulligan at once put on a blithe broadly smiling face. He looked at them, his wellshaped mouth open happily, his eyes, from which he had suddenly withdrawn all shrewd sense, blinking with mad gaiety. He moved a doll’s head to and fro, the brims of his Panama hat quivering, and began to chant in a quiet happy foolish voice :
— I’m the queerest young fellow that ever you heard.
             My mother’s a jew, my father’s a bird.
             With Joseph the joiner I cannot agree,
             So here’s to disciples and Calvary.

## Annotations

English name for the Danish city of Helsingør, where Shakepeare's Hamlet takes place
Hamlet, Act 1 Scene 4, spoken by Horatio.
# The Annotated "Ulysses"/Page 021

of whom Mulligan was one, and Arius, warring his life long upon the consubstantiality of the Son with the Father, and Valentine, spurning Christ’s terrene body, and the subtle African heresiarch Sabellius who held that the Father was Himself His own Son. Words Mulligan had spoken a moment since in mockery to the stranger. Idle mockery. The void awaits surely all them that weave the wind : a menace, a disarming and a worsting from those embattled angels of the church, Michael’s host, who defend her ever in the hour of conflict with their lances and their shields.
Hear, hear. Prolonged applause. Zut! Nom de Dieu!
— Of course I’m a Britisher, Haines’ voice said, and I feel as one. I don’t want to see my country fall into the hands of German jews either. That’s our national problem, I’m afraid, just now.
Two men stood at the verge of the cliff, watching : businessman, boatman.
— She’s making for Bullock harbour.
The boatman nodded towards the north of the bay with some disdain.
— There’s five fathoms out there, he said. It’ll be swept up that way when the tide comes in about one. It’s nine days today.
The man that was drowned. A sail veering about the blank bay waiting for a swollen bundle to bob up, roll over to the sun a puffy face, salt white. Here I am.
They followed the winding path down to the creek. Buck Mulligan stood on a stone, in shirtsleeves, his unclipped tie rippling over his shoulder. A young man clinging to a spur of rock near him moved slowly frogwise his green legs in the deep jelly of the water.
— Is the brother with you, Malachi?
— Down in Westmeath. With the Bannons.
— Still there? I got a card from Bannon. Says he found a sweet young thing down there. Photo girl he calls her.
— Shapshot, eh? Brief exposure.
Buck Mulligan sat down to unlace his boots. An elderly man shot up near the spur of rock a blowing red face. He scrambled up by the stones, water glistening on his pate and on its garland of grey hair, water rilling over his chest and paunch and spilling jets out of his black sagging loincloth.
Buck Mulligan made way for him to scramble past and, glancing at Haines and Stephen, crossed himself piously with his thumbnail at brow and breastbone.