OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# The Sentimental Songster/My Dear Highland Laddie, O

MY DEAR HIGHLAND LADDIE, O.
Blythe was the time when he fee'd wi' my father, O, Happy were the days when we herded thegither,
​Sweet were the hours when he row't me in his plaidie, O, An’ vow’t to be mine, my dear Highland laddie, O.
But ah, waes me! wi’ their sodg’ring sae gaudy, O, The laird’e wyst awa’ my braw Highland laddie, O; Misty are the glens, and the dark hills sae cloudy, O, That aye seem’d sae blythe wi’ my dear Highland laddie, O.
The blaeberry banks are now lonesome and drearie, O, Muddy are the streams that gush’d down sae clearly, O, Silent are the rocks that echoed sae gladly, O, The wild-melting strains o’ my dear Highland laddie, O.
Oh! love is like the morning, sae gladsome and bonnie, O, Till winds fa’ a storming, and clouds lower sae rainy, O, As nature in winter droops, withering sae sadly, O, Sae lang may I mourn for my dear Highland laddie, O.
He pu’d me the crawberry ripe frae the boggie fen, He pu'd me the strawberry, red frae the foggie glen, He pu'd me the rowan frae the wild steep sae giddy, O, Sae loving and kind was my dear Highland laddie, O.
# The Sentimental Songster/Hunting Chorus

HUNTING CHORUS.
What equals on earth the delight of the huntsman For whom does life’s cup more enchantingly flow? To follow the stag thro’ the forest and meadows, When brightly the beams of the morning first glow.
Oh! this is a pleasure that's worthy of princes, And health in its wanderings can ever be found. When echoing caverns and forests surround us, More bythely the pledge of the goblet will sound. Hark, follow, &c.
The light of Diana illumines our forests, The shades where in summer we often retreat, Nor is then the fell wolf in his covert securest, The boar from his lair is laid at our feet. O! this is a pleasure, &c.
# The Sentimental Songster/I Gaed a waefu' Gate Yestreen

GAED A WAEFU' GATE YESTREEN.
I gaed a waefu’ gate yestreen, A gate, I fear I’ll dearly rue; I gat my death frae twa sweet een: Twa lovely een o’ bonny blue.
'Twas not her golden ringlets bright Her lips like roses wet wi’ dew, Her heaving bosom lily white, It was her een sae bonnie blue.
She talk’d, she smil’d, my heart she wil’d, She charm’d my soul I watna how, An’ aye the stound, the deadly wound, Cam frae her een sae bonnie blue.
But spare I’ll speak, an spare I’ll speed She’ll ablins listen to my vow; Should she refuse, I’ll lay my head To her twa een sae bonny blue.
# The Sentimental Songster/The Bay of Biscay O!

THE BAY OF BISCAY O!
Loud roar’d the dreadful thunder! The rain a deluge showers! The clouds were rent asunder By lightning’s vivid powers! The night both drear and dark Our poor devoted bark, Till next day, There she lay, In the Bay of Biscay O!
Now dash’d upon the billow, Our opening timbers creak; Each fears a watery pillow, ​None stops the dreadful leak! To cling to slippery shrouds, Each breathless seaman crowds, At the lay, Till the day, In the bay of Biscay, O!
At length the wish’d for morrow Broke through the hazy sky; Absorb’d in silent sorrow, Each heav’d a bitter sigh; The dismal wreck to view Struck horror to the crew, At the lay, On that day, In the bay of Biscay, O!
Her yielding timbers sever, Her pitchy seams are rent, When Heaven, all bounteous ever, Its boundless mercy sent: A sail in sight appears, We hail her with three cheers! Now we sail, With the gale, From the Bay of Biscay, O!
# The Sentimental Songster/The Flower o' Dunblane

THE FLOWER O’ DUMBLAIN.
he sun had gane down o’er the lofty Benlomond, An’ left the red clouds to preside o’er the scene, While lanely I stray’d in a calm simmer gloamin, To muse on sweet Jessy, the flower o’ Dumblain. How sweet is the brier, wi’ its saft folding blossom, An’ sweet is the birk, wi’ its mantle o’ green; Yet sweeter, an’ fairer, an’ dear to this bosom, Is lovely young Jessy, the flower o’ Dumblain. Is lovely, &c.
She's modest as ony, an' blyth as she’s bonny, For guileless simplicity marks her its ain; An’ far be the villain, divested o’ feeling, Wad blight in its bloom the sweet flower o’ Dumblain. Sing on, thou sweet mavis, thy hymn to the e’ening, Thou’rt dear to the echoes o’ Calderwood glen; Sae dear to this bosom, sae artless and winning, Is charming young Jessy, the flower o’ Dumblain. Is charming, &c.
​How lost were my days, till I met wi’ my Jessy, The sports o' the city seem’d foolish an’ vain; I na’er saw a nymph I would ca’ my dear lassie, Till charm’d wi’ young Jessy, the flower o’ Dumblain; Though mine were the station o’ loftiest grandeur, Amidst its profusion I’d languish in pain, An’ reckon as naething the height o’ its splendour, If wanting sweet Jessy, the flower o’ Dumblain. If wanting, &c.
# The Sentimental Songster/My Own Blue Bell

MY OWN BLUE BELL.
My own blue bell, my pretty blue bell, I never will rove where roses dwell; My wings you view of your own bright hue, And, oh! never doubt that my heart’s true blue. Though oft, I own, I’ve foolishly flown, To peep at each bud that was newly blown, I now have done with folly and fun, For there's nothing like constancy under the sun. My own blue bell, &c.
Some Belles are Blues, invoking the Muse And talking of vast intellectual views: Their crow-quills’ tip in the ink they dip, And they prate with the lore of a learned lip. Blue Belles like these, may be wise as they please, But I love my blue bell that bends in the breeze; Pride passes her by, but she charms my eye, With a tint that resembles the cloudless sky. My own bell, &c.
# The Sentimental Songster/Sleeping Maggie

SLEEPING MAGGIE.
Mirk an’ rainy is the night, No a starn in a’ the carry, Lightnings gleam athwart the lift, And winds drive wi’ winter’s fury.
O are ye sleeping Maggie, O are ye sleeping Maggie, Let me in, for loud the linn, Is roaring o’er the warlock craigie.
(illegible text)earfu’ soughs the boor-tree bank. The rifted wood roars wild an’ dreary, Loud the iron yett does clank, And cry o’ bowlets make me eerie. O are ye sleeping, &c.
Aboon my breath I darnae speak, For fear I rouse your waukrife daddy Cauld’s the blast upon my cheek, Oh rise, rise my bonny lady. O are ye sleeping, &c.
She’ opt the door, she’ let him in. He cuist aside his dreepin’ plaidie, Blaw your warst ye rain and win, Since Maggy, now I’m in beside ye.
Now since I’m in beside yon, Now since I’m in beside you, Maggie, What care I for howlet’s cry, For boor-tree-bank or warlock craigie.
# The Songs that Quinte Sang/The Recompense

The Recompense.
The King once sent His messenger to me Charged with a message from the court above. “Ask what thou wilt and it shall granted be.” And my first prayer was, “Angel! Give me love.”
The angel smiled on me, then gently sighed, “My child! To such as thee, Love bringeth woe.” But still I prayed and would not be denied, Until at last he murmured. “Be it so,”
And held Love’s chalice to my eager lips, But scarcely had I touched its golden rim When all life’s brightness suffered swift eclipse And sun and stars unto my eyes grew dim.
And on my lips Love’s sweetness turned to rue. “Oh, Angel!” then I cried, with sobbing breath, “I asked for Love, Life’s sweetest gift, and you Have mocked me with the bitterness of Death.”
The angel smiled once more, then said, “Not so, The sweetness of Love’s wine is not for all. To some it bringeth bliss, to others woe; Upon some lips its honey turns to gall.
“But fullest recompense awaits above, So be thou comforted, my child, and know That God reserves His richest meed of Love For those who miss its sweetness here below.”
# The Songs that Quinte Sang/To E. S.

To E. S.
O heartstricken, sorrowing mother! No words ever written or said Can lessen the weight of your sorrow Since the baby you love is dead.
But remember, O sorrowful mother Thy heart should rejoice, not repine, Since of all earth’s beautiful treasures The Master has chosen thine.
The fairest, the brightest, the purest, Find grace in His loving eyes And the Lord hath chosen thy treasure To beautify Paradise.
Dear baby hands that will never Grow weary with earthly strife, Sweet baby eyes that will never Grow dim with the cares of life.
Wee feet that will never stumble Over Life’s rugged way, For the hands of angels now guide them And they cannot go astray.
But a mother’s love is boundless As the seas or the skies above, And a mother’s heart grows jealous E’en of the angels love.
And she longs for her baby’s kisses, The touch of the dimpled hand, And the baby voice now thrilling The ears of the angel band.
But you need not fear, O mother! Tho’ the years be many or few, Tho’ the time pass slow or swiftly, For the baby heart is true.
Not even the songs of the angels Or the joys of Paradise Can banish the tender yearning From your baby’s gentle eyes
As she lingers beside the portal Of her shining, heavenly home And asks of the angel warder If her mother soon will come.
And the wistful longing deepens In her eyes as she stands and waits, Watching for mother darling At the City’s pearly gates.
Cease then to mourn, sad mother, Take up Life’s burden anew, Shape thou the future before thee With earnest endeavor and true,
That no thought or deed unworthy May bring shame to the baby eyes That are watching so wistfully for thee From the gates of Paradise.
# The Songs that Quinte Sang/To M. A.

To M. A.
Even in the hour of her birth, When cradled on her mother’s breast, A helpless babe, she lay at rest, The angel Pain came down to earth.
And bending o’er the sleeping child, He laid a burden on her heart, Then turned, but e’er he could depart The babe awoke and sweetly smiled.
The pathos in those great, dark eyes Went to his heart even as he spread His shining wings, then straight he sped In silent swiftness to the skies.
And reaching Heaven the angel Pain Sought out the ranks of seraphs fair, And kissed the sweetest singer there, Then winged his way to earth again.
And gazing on the child through tears, Upon her infant lips he left The kiss from heaven’s singer reft, A recompense for future years.
And as the maiden grew in years They marveled at her winsome grace, The sweetness of her voice and face, Which moved mankind to smiles and tears.
But angels mourn while we rejoice To hear the strains, divine and sweet, For Heaven’s choir is incomplete Without the music of her voice.
# The Songs that Quinte Sang/The Honest Working Man

The Honest Working Man.
As through the world we take our way How oftentimes we hear The praises sung of wealthy men, Of prince, and duke and peer. The poets tell us of their fame, They are lauded o’er the land, But you very seldom hear them sing Of the honest working man.
They praise the wealthy banker, The purse-proud millionaire; Their pockets have golden lining, So they’re praised from everywhere. Let others sing the praises Of those darlings of the land, But mine shall be a nobler theme— The honest working man.
Let monarchs prize their glittering crowns And all their royal host, Let lordlings brag of their blue blood— They have nothing else to boast. But what is all their rank, compared To our hero, true and grand, One of fair Nature’s noblemen— The honest working man.
His hands may be both rough and hard, His clothes and speech be plain, But you will find his manly heart Without a spot or stain. And there are some whose clothes are fine, Whose hands are soft and white, But the secret records of their lives Could never bear the light.
May Heaven’s choicest blessings fall Upon that hero’s head, Who bravely toils throughout each day To earn his loved ones bread. You’ll find no monarch who can show A record half so grand. God bless great labor’s true-born knight— The honest working man.
So now of Fortune’s favored ones, Henceforth let less be said, And more be spoken of the man Who toils for daily bread. God bless each hardy son of toil That labors in the land. Let us give three cheers with right good will For the honest working man.
# The Songs that Quinte Sang/The Lost Baby

The Lost Baby.
The birds are singing sweet and clear, Their songs are full of gladness, The sun is shining bright, but still My heart is filled with sadness.
It matters not how glad the birds, Or fair the sunny day be. My heart is heavy with its grief, I’ve lost my little baby.
Oh have you seen him passing by, A bonnie little fellow, With eyes as blue as summer’s sky And silky curls of yellow?
He disappeared quite suddenly And left no sign or token To let me know where he has gone; My heart is almost broken.
A manly lad is in his place, Much taller and much older, With boots and pockets, sun-burned face, A school-bag on his shoulder.
Who clasps his arms around my neck, And laughs with boyish vigor— “Why Auntie, dear, that baby’s me, Only I’m grown up bigger.”
“And did you really think me lost? How could you be so silly? For though I’m grown up ’most a man I’m still your little Willy,
“Who’ll always love you just the same, And some day, Auntie, may be You’ll love me every bit as much As you have loved that baby.”
Dear little man, a wistful note Into his voice is creeping, Which warns me that the boyish heart Is full almost to weeping.
And so with tender words I haste To soothe his heart’s dejection, And strive with many a loving kiss To prove my fond affection.
Dear lad, I take you to my heart, To hold you there forever And pray that stern misfortune’s frown May rest upon you never.
But there’s one chamber in my heart, Deep in the inmost center, From all the rest it stands apart, Within it none may enter.
And there on Memory’s golden shrine Is pictured bright and clearly, The image of the baby boy I used to love so dearly.
# The Songs that Quinte Sang/The New Year

The New Year.
When the gloomy shades of midnight Have enveloped all the earth, I sit watching at the window For the coming New Year’s birth, And I seem to see in fancy, Through the shadows of the night, Hosts of angel forms advancing, O so fair and wondrous bright.
Well I know those radiant beings Are not of an earthly clime— In their midst a grim old figure, Gaunt and gray, old Father Time; In his arms he bears a burden— ’Tis an infant, young and fair, Rounded limbs and baby dimples, Laughing eyes and shining hair.
Onward comes the bright procession, Singing songs of happy cheer, And I know the smiling infant Is the blithe and bright New Year. Now they pause before my window And the New Year laughs with glee, Holding both hands clasped tightly O’er the gifts I may not see.
And he whispers: “O sad mortal! Bid thy sorrows all depart, I have come with fairest blessings And would cheer thy saddened heart.” And I whisper: “Tell me, New Year, What thou hast in store for me?” But he clasps his hand still closer O’er the gifts I may not see.
And he speaks in solemn sadness “Mortal, would’st thou look ahead, Would’st thou draw aside the curtain From the paths that thou must tread? Never yet were seen by mortals, Paths as yet by them untrod, Seek not then to read the future, Leave it all to time and God.”
Then with footsteps fleet and noiseless, Speed the shining throng away And once more alone I’m sitting In the darkness, cold and gray. “Ah! The New Year’s right,” I murmur, “It is best I should not know, So to God I leave the future Be it weal or be it woe.”
# The Songs that Quinte Sang/The Sailor’s Grave

The Sailor’s Grave.
A stately ship sails out to sea, And her sailors sing right merrily As they cheerily hoist the snowy sail Which bends before the freshning gale.
But there is one who stands apart, For song and jest he has no heart, And his eyes are dim with unshed tears As the fading shore slow disappears.
Now ’tis lost to sight, he breathes a sigh, “My own, dear native land, good bye, Farewell, loved ones on yonder shore We part to meet, perchance no more.”
The ocean rests in slumber grand, And the ship is far out from the land; All gilded in the radiant beams Of the golden sun, her white sail gleams.
On the good ship’s deck the sailors pace, A solemn fear on every face. A stranger grim with chilling breath Has come on board, his name is Death.
O brave young heart! that undismayed Shrank not when death’s chill hand was laid Upon thy lips, stilling their breath Sealing them with the seal of death.
With canvas coarse for winding sheet They shrouded him from head to feet, Brushed from his brow the curls of gold, And crossed his hands on his bosom cold.
Then a prayer was murmured low and soft, While the rising winds in the shrouds aloft Sang a mournful requiem, slow and sad— A funeral dirge for the sailor lad.
Then a sob broke forth from each manly breast As he slowly sank ’neath the blue wave’s crest; O noble heart! so true and brave, Sleep on in rest in your sailor’s grave.
Sleep on and fear no earthly harm, Sleep! till the judgment’s dread alarm Shall wake thee from thy dreamless sleep And call thee from the silent deep.
And the years roll on in grief and joy, And a mother weeps for her fair-haired boy, And a sister prays with a sob and tear For the safe return of her brother dear.
And a maiden stands in a cottage door Listening for a step that will come no more, And she prays as she looks across the sea, “God speed my darling back to me.”
And when at eve in the glowing west The golden sun sinks down to rest They often watch the fading light And say, “Perhaps he will come to-night.”
Ah! faithful hearts! ’tis all in vain, Your loved one will not come again. Far, far away ’neath the rolling wave He sleeps alone in a sailor’s grave.
# The Songs that Quinte Sang/The Dying Year

The Dying Year.
The New Year comes tome with laughing eyes, His hands clasped closely that I may not see, And whispers of the wondrous gifts he holds Safe hidden in his dimpled palms for me. But all his promises to me are naught, His words but fall upon a heedless ear. To all his glowing hopes I give no thought For I am weeping for the dying year.
Oh! Dear Old Year, and must I say farewell? Never indeed was word so sadly said. I care not for the New Year’s promises, With thee my fairest hopes will soon be dead. Old Year, thou wast indeed a friend to me And though my joy were sometimes mixed with woe No other year was half so kind as thee; It breaks my heart, Old Year, to see thee go.
Hark! Now the bells ring out their merry chime! Upon the midnight air their voices swell A peal of welcome to the new-born year. To me ’tis but the Old Year’s dying knell. O, dear old friend, the hour has come at last When I must say farewell for aye to thee. New Years may come and Old Years pass away, But you will never be forgot by me.
# The Songs that Quinte Sang/The Lesson

The Lesson.
Once when my heart had dared to spurn The wisdom of His will sublime, God set a task for me to learn— To break this stubborn will of mine.
Humbled and penitent, I knelt At my stern teacher Sorrow’s knee, And with white lips, heart-stricken spelt The lesson God had set for me.
Through shades of swiftly gathering night I strove the tear-stained page to con, Whilst friends who smiled with morning’s light Departed as the night came on.
Then with my lesson learned by heart I turned to face the world again, And watched each fickle friend depart, Mine eyes bedimmed with tears of pain.
I scanned each face with wistful eyes For friendly smile, but there was none, Then turned away with bitter sigh And cried: “O God! There is not one,
“Who heedless of the world’s cold scorn Will step from out the beaten road, And help with words of kindness born A comrade sinking ’neath the load.”
O friend! I own that I was wrong, My hasty judgment now I rue, You stepped from out that worldly throng To clasp my hand in friendship true.
The memory of that kindly deed Shall ever in my heart be shrined, For in that hour of sorest need You saved my faith in human kind.
And though God’s hand hath smitten sore, Hath broken this poor heart of mine, And darkened all that lies before, I will not murmur nor repine.
For had my sun ne’er known eclipse, Had Life’s fair blooms ne’er turned to rue, Had Sorrow’s cup not pressed my lips, I had not found a friend like you.
Of all I know, ’twas you alone, Who stretched towards me helping hands, Content to let the fruitless past Be judged by Him who understands.
Your hand had power my steps to stay As unbelief’s dark paths I trod, And pointed out a better way, The peaceful path that leads to God.
# The Story of Miss Moppet

THE STORY OF
MISS MOPPET
BY
BEATRIX POTTER
THE AUTHORIZED EDITION
F. WARNE & C$^{ọ}$
THE STORY OF MISS MOPPET
THE STORY OF
MISS MOPPET
BY
BEATRIX POTTER
Author of "The Tale of Peter Rabbit," etc.
NEW YORK FREDERICK WARNE & CO., INC AND LONDON
(All rights reserved)
Copyright in all countries
signatory to the Berne Convention
Frederick Warne & Co. Ltd.
London, England.
PRINTED IN THE U.S.A. BY
PRINCETON POLYCHROME PRESS
ORD EDN ISBN 0 7232 0612 0
THE STORY OF MISS MOPPET
​THIS is a Pussy called Miss Moppet, she thinks she has heard a mouse!
​THIS is the Mouse peeping out behind the cupboard, and making fun of Miss Moppet. He is not afraid of a kitten.
​THIS is Miss Moppet jumping just too late; she misses the Mouse and hits her own head.
​SHE thinks it is a very hard cupboard!
​THE Mouse watches Miss Moppet from the top of the cupboard.
​MISS MOPPET ties up her head in a duster, and sits before the fire.
​THE Mouse thinks she is looking very ill. He comes sliding down the bell-pull.
​MISS MOPPET looks worse and worse. The Mouse comes a little nearer.
​MISS MOPPET holds her poor head in her paws, and looks at him through a hole in the duster. The Mouse comes very close.
​AND then all of a sudden—Miss Moppet jumps upon the Mouse!
​AND because the Mouse has teased Miss Moppet—Miss Moppet thinks she will tease the Mouse; which is not at all nice of Miss Moppet.
​BUT she forgot about that hole in the duster; and when she untied it—there was no Mouse!
​HE has wriggled out and run away; and he is dancing a jig on the top of the cupboard!
The Original
Peter Rabbit Books
By BEATRIX POTTER
A LIST OF THE TITLES
* Appley Dapply's Nursery Rhymes
* Cecily Parsley's Nursery Rhymes
* The Tale of Little Pig Robinson
® Published by FREDERICK WARNE & CO., INC.
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 1943, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 80 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
# The Story of Mexico/Illustrations

| LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. ||
| | page |
| Mexican Flag | Frontispiece. |
| Valley of Tula | 15 |
| Column from Tula | 24 |
| Ruins found at Tula | 25 |
| Quetzalcoatl | 31 |
| Portico at Kaboh | 43 |
| Vase in the National Museum, Washington. | 63 |
| Casa del Gobernador, Uxmal | 71 |
| Statue from Palenque | 73 |
| Tablet of Cross at Palenque | 74 |
| Mayan Bas-Relief | 77 |
| Statue of Chaak Mool | 79 |
| Zamna | 81 |
| Organ Cactus | 85 |
| Idol in Terra-Cotta | 89 |
| Canal outside the City of Mexico | 93 |
| Stone of Tizoc | 103 |
| Sculpture Representing Human Sacrifice. | 107 |
| Court of the Museum at Mexico | 113 |
| Vase. Museum at Mexico | 120 |
| Pyramid at Teotihuacan | 169 |
| Early Pottery | 187 |
| Cathedral at Morelia | 201 |
| Puebla de Los Angeles | 205 |
| Temple of Xochicalco | 225 |
| Cactus Hedge | 239 ​ |
| Panorama of Puebla | 269 |
| Indian Hut in the Tierra Caliente | 283 |
| Cathedral, City of Mexico | 289 |
| The Viga | 293 |
| Valley of Mexico | 303 |
| Monterey, Mexico | 315 |
| General Taylor | 317 |
| General Scott | 325 |
| Siege of Vera Cruz | 329 |
| Battle of Molino del Rey | 335 |
| Storming of Chapultepec | 337 |
| Benito Juarez | 343 |
| Archduke Maximilian | 351 |
| San Luis Potosi | 359 |
| Chapultepec in the Time of Maximilian | 361 |
| Head-quarters of Juarez at San Luis de Potosi | 379 |
| The Convent of Capuchinas | 381 |
| Zapotec Ornament | 393 |
| Image of a Zapotec Chief | 394 |
| President Porfirio Diaz | 397 |
| Aqueduct in the City of Mexico | 410 |