OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Poems by Felicia Dorothea Browne/To a Beautiful Vine and a Rose-Bush

TO A BEAUTIFUL VINE AND A ROSE-BUSH.
Thou fair expanding mossy-rose,  Long may thy opening foliage twine  With this luxuriant cluster'd vine; Which round thee wreathes its tender boughs.
Fair vine, long may thy leaves extend,  While gentle showers refresh thy root; Long may thy graceful branches bend,  Enrich'd with purpling luscious fruit.
Sweet rose, long may thy flow'rs receive The lucid tears of morn and eve; Long mayst thou in profusion spread, Thy straying buds of brigthest red.
# Poems by Felicia Dorothea Browne/To my Eldest Brother, Lieutenant in the Twenty-third Regiment of Foot

TO MY ELDEST BROTHER,
LIEUTENANT IN THE TWENTY-THIRD REGIMENT OF FOOT; OR, ROYAL WELCH FUZILEERS.
ON HIS COMPLETING HIS TWENTY-FIRST YEAR.
While Hope, the syren fair and gay, Tells of some future happy day, Let Pleasure with benignant power, The empress of the social hour, Smile on the day to love so dear, And smile more softly thro' a tear.
Yet, while on fancy's raptur'd sight, Beam the sweet visions of delight, For thee affection fondly sighs, And fears, and doubtful wishes rise: Yet lovely Hope again appears, And lifts the veil of distant years.
"For thee," she sings, "shall fancy bloom, "And love the path of life illume; "For thee shall health her roses shed, "And glory's laurels twine thy head. "Then joy shall drop a precious tear, "To hail the gallant fuzileer."
# Poems by Felicia Dorothea Browne/To the Moon

TO THE MOON.
Cyllene rise! yon osier trees, Waving their branches to the breeze, Court thee in hollow gentle sighs, And whisper, "Fair Cyllene rise."
Heaven's canopy is studded bright, With countless stars, in streams of light; Yet what avail their beams divine, If thou fair queen, refuse to shine?
The shepherd's lute with sprightly sound Awakes the mountain echoes round; And as the warbling cadence dies, It murmurs forth, "Cyllene rise."
Down in yon vale the minstrel's hand Strikes the loud harp to glory's band; And as the glowing theme's pursu'd, Feels all his youthful fires renew'd.
And now to thee he tunes the lay, And courts thy soft and placid ray; Romantic melody awakes the skies, To thee he carols, "Fair Cyllene rise."
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/The flood in Spring

THE FLOOD IN SPRING.
Last night below the elem in the lew  Bright the sky did gleam On water blue, while aïr did softly blow  On the flowèn stream, An’ there wer gil’cups’ buds untwold, An’ deäisies that begun to vwold Their low-stemm’d blossoms vrom my zight Ageän the night, an’ evenèn’s cwold.
But, oh! so cwold below the darksome cloud  Soon the night-wind roar’d,
Wi’ raïny storms that zent the zwollèn streams  Over ev’ry vword. ​The while the drippèn tow’r did tell The hour, wi’ storm-be-smother’d bell, An’ over ev’ry flower’s bud Roll’d on the flood, ’ithin the dell.
But when the zun arose, an’ lik’ a rwose  Shone the mornèn sky; An’ roun’ the woak, the wind a-blowèn weak,  Softly whiver’d by. Though drown’d wer still the deaïsy bed Below the flood, its feäce instead O’ flow’ry grown’, below our shoes Show’d feäirest views o’ skies o’er head.
An’ zoo to try if all our faith is true  Jaÿ mid end in tears, An’ hope, woonce feäir, mid saddèn into fear,  Here in e’thly years. But He that tried our soul do know To meäke us good amends, an’ show Instead o’ things a-took awaÿ, Some higher jaÿ that He’ll bestow.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Thissledown

THISSLEDOWN.
The thissledown by wind’s a-roll’d  In Fall along the zunny plaïn,
Did catch the grass, but lose its hold,  Or cling to bennets, but in vaïn.
But when it zwept along the grass,  An’ zunk below the hollow’s edge, It lay at rest while winds did pass  Above the pit-bescreenèn ledge.
The plaïn ha’ brightness wi’ his strife,  The pit is only dark at best, There’s pleasure in a worksome life,  An’ sloth is tiresome wi’ its rest.
Zoo, then, I’d sooner beär my peärt,  Ov all the trials vo’k do rue, Than have a deadness o’ the heart,  Wi’ nothèn mwore to veel or do.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/The Year-clock

THE YEAR-CLOCK.
We zot bezide the leäfy wall, Upon the bench at evenfall, While aunt led off our minds vrom ceäre Wi’ veäiry teäles, I can’t tell where: ​An’ vound us woone among her stock O’ feäbles, o’ the girt Year-clock. His feäce wer blue’s the zumraer skies, An’ wide’s the zight o’ lookèn eyes, For hands, a zun wi’ glowèn feäce, An’ peäler moon wi’ swifter peäce, Did wheel by stars o’ twinklèn light, By bright-wall’d day, an’ dark-treed night; An’ down upon the high-sky’d land, A-reachèn wide, on either hand, Wer hill an’ dell wi’ win’-swaÿ’d trees, An’ lights a-zweepèn over seas, An’ gleamèn cliffs, an’ bright-wall’d tow’rs, Wi’ sheädes a-markèn on the hours; An’ as the feäce, a-rollèn round, Brought comely sheäpes along the ground, The Spring did come in winsome steäte Below a glowèn raïnbow geäte; An’ fan wi’ aïr a-blowèn weak, Her glossy heäir, an’ rwosy cheäk, As she did shed vrom oben hand, The leäpèn zeed on vurrow’d land; The while the rook, wi’ heästy flight, A-floatèn in the glowèn light, Did bear avore her glossy breast A stick to build her lofty nest, An’ strong-limb’d Tweil, wi’ steady hands, Did guide along the vallow lands The heavy zull, wi’ bright-sheär’d beam, Avore the weäry oxen team. Wi’ Spring a-gone there come behind Sweet Zummer, jaÿ ov ev’ry mind, Wi’ feäce a-beamèn to beguile Our weäry souls ov ev’ry tweil. While birds did warble in the dell In softest aïr o’ sweetest smell; ​An’ she, so winsome-feäir did vwold Her comely limbs in green an’ goold, An’ wear a rwosy wreath, wi’ studs O’ berries green, an’ new-born buds, A-fring’d in colours vier-bright, Wi’ sheäpes o’ buttervlees in flight. When Zummer went, the next ov all Did come the sheäpe o’ brown-feäc’d Fall, A-smilèn in a comely gown O’ green, a-shot wi’ yellow-brown, A-border’d wi’ a goolden stripe O’ fringe, a-meäde o’ corn-ears ripe, An’ up ageän her comely zide, Upon her rounded eärm, did ride A perty basket, all a-twin’d O’ slender stems wi’ leaves an’ rind, A-vill’d wi’ fruit the trees did shed, All ripe, in purple, goold, an’ red; An’ busy Leäbor there did come A-zingèn zongs ov harvest hwome, An’ red-ear’d dogs did briskly run Roun’ cheervul Leisure wi’ his gun, Or stan’ an’ mark, wi’ stedvast zight, The speckled pa’tridge rise in flight. An’ next ageän to mild-feäc’d Fall Did come peäle Winter, last ov all, A-bendèn down, in thoughtvul mood, Her head ’ithin a snow-white hood A-deck’d wi’ icy-jewels, bright An’ cwold as twinklèn stars o’ night; An’ there wer weary Leäbor, slack O’ veet to keep her vrozen track, A-lookèn off, wi’ wistful eyes, To reefs o’ smoke, that there did rise A-meltèn to the peäle-feac’d zun, Above the houses’ lofty tun. ​An’ there the girt Year-clock did goo By day an’ night, vor ever true, Wi’ mighty wheels a-rollèn round ’Ithout a beat, ’ithout a sound.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/The Young that died in Beauty

THE YOUNG THAT DIED IN BEAUTY.
If souls should only sheen so bright In heaven as in e’thly light, An’ nothèn better wer the ceäse, How comely still, in sheäpe an’ feäce, Would many reach thik happy pleäce,— The hopeful souls that in their prime Ha’ seem’d a-took avore their time— The young that died in beauty.
But when woone’s lim’s ha’ lost their strangth A-tweilèn drough a lifetime’s langth, An’ over cheäks a-growèn wold The slowly-weästen years ha’ rolled, The deep’nèn wrinkle’s hollow vwold; When life is ripe, then death do call Vor less ov thought, than when do vall On young vo’ks in their beauty.
​But pinèn souls, wi’ heads a-hung In heavy sorrow vor the young, The sister ov the brother dead, The father wi’ a child a-vled, The husband when his bride ha’ laid Her head at rest, noo mwore to turn, Have all a-vound the time to murn Vor youth that died in beauty.
An’ yeet the church, where praÿer do rise Vrom thoughtvul souls, wi’ downcast eyes, An’ village greens, a-beät half beäre By dancers that do meet, an’ weär Such merry looks at feäst an’ feäir, Do gather under leätest skies, Their bloomèn cheäks an’ sparklèn eyes, Though young ha’ died in beauty.
But still the dead shall mwore than keep The beauty ov their eärly sleep; Where comely looks shall never weär Uncomely, under tweil an’ ceäre. The feäir at death be always feäir, Still feäir to livers’ thought an’ love, An’ feäirer still to God above, Than when they died in beauty.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/The Zummer Hedge

THE ZUMMER HEDGE.
As light do gleäre in ev’ry ground, Wi’ boughy hedges out a-round A-climmèn up the slopèn brows O’ hills, in rows o’ sheädy boughs: The while the hawthorn buds do blow As thick as stars, an’ white as snow; Or cream-white blossoms be a-spread About the guelder-rwoses’ head; How cool’s the sheäde, or warm’s the lewth, Bezide a zummer hedge in blooth.
When we’ve a-work’d drough longsome hours, Till dew’s a-dried vrom dazzlèn flow’rs, The while the climmèn zun ha’ glow’d Drough mwore than half his daily road: Then where the sheädes do slily pass Athirt our veet upon the grass, As we do rest by lofty ranks Ov elems on the flow’ry banks; How cool’s the sheade, or warm’s the lewth, Bezide a zummer hedge in blooth.
But oh! below woone hedge’s zide Our jaÿ do come a-most to pride; Out where the high-stemm’d trees do stand, In row bezide our own free land, An’ where the wide-leav’d clote mid zwim ’Ithin our water’s rushy rim: An’ raïn do vall, an’ zuns do burn, An’ each in season, and in turn, To cool the sheäde or warm the lewth Ov our own zummer hedge in blooth.
​How soft do sheäke the zummer hedge— How soft do sway the zummer zedge— How bright be zummer skies an’ zun— How bright the zummer brook do run; An’ feäir the flow’rs do bloom, to feäde Behind the swaÿen mower’s bleäde; An’ sweet be merry looks o’ jaÿ, By weäles an’ pooks o’ June’s new haÿ, Wi’ smilèn age, an laughèn youth, Bezide the zummer hedge in blooth.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Things do Come Round

THINGS DO COME ROUND.
Above the leafless hazzle-wride  The wind-drove raïn did quickly vall,
An’ on the meäple’s ribby zide  Did hang the raïn-drops quiv’rèn ball; Out where the brook o’ foamy yollow Roll’d along the meäd’s deep hollow, An’ noo birds wer out to beät, Wi’ flappèn wings, the vleèn wet O’ zunless clouds on flow’rless ground. How time do bring the seasons round!
The moss, a-beät vrom trees, did lie  Upon the ground in ashen droves, An’ western wind did huffle high,  Above the sheds’ quick-drippèn oves. An’ where the ruslèn straw did sound  So dry, a-shelter’d in the lew, I staïed alwone, an’ weather-bound,  An’ thought on times, long years agoo. Wi’ water-floods on flow’rless ground. How time do bring the seasons round!
We then, in childhood plaÿ, did seem  In work o’ men to teäke a peärt, A-drevèn on our wild bwoy team,  Or lwoadèn o’ the tiny cart. Or, on our little refters, spread The zedgen ruf above our head. ​But coulden tell, as now we can, Where each would goo to tweil a man. O jaÿs a-lost, an’ jaÿs a-vound, How Providence do bring things round!
Where woonce along the sky o’ blue  The zun went roun’ his longsome bow, An’ brighten’d, to my soul, the view  About our little farm below. There I did play the merry geäme,  Wi’ childern ev’ry holitide, But coulden tell the vaïce or neäme  That time would vind to be my bride. O hwome a-left, O wife a-vound, How Providence do bring things round!
An’ when I took my manhood’s pleäce,  A husband to a wife’s true vow, I never thought by neäme or feäce  O’ childern that be round me now. An’ now they all do grow vrom small, Drough life’s feäir sheäpes to big an’ tall, I still be blind to God’s good plan, To pleäce em out as wife, or man. O thread o’ love by God unwound, How He in time do bring things round;
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Times o' Year

TIMES O’ YEAR.
Here did swaÿ the eltrot flow’rs, When the hours o’ night wer vew, An’ the zun, wi’ early beams ​Brighten’d streams, an’ dried the dew, An’ the goocoo there did greet Passers by wi’ dousty veet.
There the milkmaïd hung her brow By the cow, a-sheenèn red; An’ the dog, wi’ upward looks, Watch’d the rooks above his head, An’ the brook, vrom bow to bow, Here went swift, an’ there wer slow.
Now the cwolder-blowèn blast, Here do cast vrom elems’ heads Feäded leaves, a-whirlèn round, Down to ground, in yollow beds, Ruslèn under milkers’ shoes, When the day do dry the dews.
Soon shall grass, a-vrosted bright, Glisten white instead o’ green, An’ the wind shall smite the cows, Where the boughs be now their screen. Things do change as years do vlee; What ha’ years in store vor me?
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/The Zilver-weed

THE ZILVER-WEED.
The zilver-weed upon the green,  Out where my sons an’ daughters plaÿ’d, Had never time to bloom between  The litty steps o’ bwoy an’ maïd. But rwose-trees down along the wall,  That then wer all the maïden’s ceäre, An’ all a-trimm’d an’ traïn’d, did bear  Their bloomèn buds vrom Spring to Fall.
But now the zilver leaves do show  To zummer day their goolden crown, Wi’ noo swift shoe-zoles’ litty blow,  In merry plaÿ to beät em down. An’ where vor years zome busy hand  Did traïn the rwoses wide an’ high; Now woone by woone the trees do die,  An’ vew of all the row do stand.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/To Me

TO ME.
At night, as drough the meäd I took my waÿ, In aïr a-sweeten’d by the new-meäde haÿ, A stream a-vallèn down a rock did sound, Though out o’ zight wer foam an’ stwone to me.
Behind the knap, above the gloomy copse, The wind did russle in the trees’ high tops, Though evenèn darkness, an’ the risèn hill, Kept all the quiv’rèn leaves unshown to me,
Within the copse, below the zunless sky, I heärd a nightèngeäle, a-warblèn high Her lwoansome zong, a-hidden vrom my zight, An’ showèn nothèn but her mwoan to me.
An’ by a house, where rwoses hung avore The thatch-brow’d window, an’ the oben door, I heärd the merry words, an’ hearty laugh O’ zome feäir maïd, as eet unknown to me.
High over head the white-rimm’d clouds went on, Wi’ woone a-comèn up, vor woone a-gone; An’ feäir they floated in their sky-back’d flight, But still they never meäde a sound to me.
An’ there the miller, down the stream did float Wi’ all his childern, in his white-saïl’d bwoat, Vur off, beyond the stragglèn cows in meäd, But zent noo vaïce, athirt the ground, to me.
An’ then a buttervlee, in zultry light, A-wheelèn on about me, vier-bright, Did show the gaÿest colors to my eye, But still did bring noo vaïce around to me.
​I met the merry laugher on the down, Bezide her mother, on the path to town, An’ oh! her sheäpe wer comely to the zight, But wordless then wer she a-vound to me.
Zoo, sweet ov unzeen things mid be sound, An’ feäir to zight mid soundless things be vound, But I’ve the laugh to hear, an’ feäce to zee, Vor they be now my own, a-bound to me.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Tokens

TOKENS
Green mwold on zummer bars do show  That they’ve a-dripp’d in Winter wet; The hoof-worn ring o’ groun’ below  The tree, do tell o’ storms or het; The trees in rank along a ledge Do show where woonce did bloom a hedge; An’ where the vurrow-marks do stripe The down, the wheat woonce rustled ripe. Each mark ov things a-gone vrom view— To eyezight’s woone, to soulzight two.
The grass ageän the mwoldrèn door  ’S a tóken sad o’ vo’k a-gone, An’ where the house, bwoth wall an’ vloor,  ’S a-lost, the well mid linger on. What tokens, then, could Meäry gi’e That she’d a-liv’d, an’ liv’d vor me, But things a-done vor thought an’ view? Good things that nwone ageän can do, An’ every work her love ha’ wrought, To eyezight’s woone, but two to thought.
# Pieces People Ask For/The Mississippi Miracle

THE MISSISSIPPI MIRACLE.
I's let up on preachin'. I's truly
De Rev'rind Dick Wilkins, D.D.;
I know I heerd Gabr'el a-callin',
An' thought he was callin' on me:
"You Wilkins, go preach me de gospel!"
Dat, sah, was de way dat he went;
But now, sah, I's mightily jubous
'Twas some oder Wilkins he meant.
Yes, sah, dat ar matter you knows of
Has cleaned me plumb out of my grace.
What! ain't nebber heard of it? Nebbah?
Seed nobody in from de place?
Den set down an' listen; and when, sah,
I's tol' you de mizable tale,
You'll 'low dat religion, out ou' way,
Is mighty low down in de scale.
I started to work wid good prospects:
My field, you mought call it, was good;
I tried fur to keep up de fences,
An' worked it de best 'at I could;
De site wuzn't much fur to brag on;
'Twas mos'ly clay gullies an' sand;
But de craps, in de way ob collections,
Wuz good fur dat 'scription ob land.
Well, sah, we got up a revival,
To last a consid'able while,
An' 'greed, as we's gwine fur to hab it,
'Twas best fur to hab it in style.
We started her goin' at sun-up,
An' kep' her a-bilin' till night,
When forty-odd mo'nahs wuz shoutin',
An' forty more cornin' in sight.
Des den it come into my min', sah,
To gib dem ar niggahs a trile;
An' so I riz up, an' I says, sah,—
I says, with a beautiful smile :
"My Men's, I'm a-gwine to propose you
A small, onsignincant test,
To proobe—out ob all ob de virtues—
Which ob you has charity best.
"Now, hush up a minnit! I'll tell you,
An' den you kin go on an' shout.
De short ob de mattah is: Friday
My barrel ob whiskey gub out;
It happens, too, des at dis moment,
I hasn't de money to buy:
An' so I proposes to you all,
Dat you shill make up de supply.
"To-morrow I'll hab me a barrel A-settin' out dar on the bluff,
An' eb'ry good Christian's expected
To fotch 'long a pint o' good stuff.
So I'll git my barrel ob whiskey,
An you'll git the feeling dat you
Is got charity down till you're ekal
To gibbin' de debbil his due."
Nes' mohnin', sah, dar wuz de barrel;
An' eb'ry man fotched up a flask,
An' put de neck down in de bunghole,
An' emptied it into de cask.
I thought 'at I'd try how it swallowed,
An' held a gourd under the spout,
An' den gib a turn on de fossit—
When nuffin but water come out !
"A miracle!" shouted de sistahs. "A miracle nuffin!" says I; "I see froo de mattah,—it's easy To tell you des how it come by: Each man fotched a bottle ob water, An' thought, when de cask wuz complete, By eb'ry one else bringin' whiskey, Nobody would notice de cheat."
Dat sort o' broke up the revival — An' raly I think it wuz time, Wid all de head brudders convicted Ob such a contemptible crime. Dey isn't no good in purfeshins; Dat's one thing I hope 'at you sees — But, sah, it's so late I mus' leab you To pick out what moral you please.
Irwin Russell.
# Pieces People Ask For/The Menagerie

THE MENAGERIE.
Did you ever? No, I never!
Mercy on us, what a smell!
Don't be frightened, Johnny dear!
Gracious! how the jackalls yell.
Mother, tell me what's the man
Doing with that pole of his?
Bless your little precious heart,
He's stirring up the beastesses!
Children, don't you go so near!
Heving's! there's the Afric cowes!
What's the matter with the child? Why, the monkey's, tore his trousers!
Here's the monstrous elephant—
I'm all a-tremble at the sight;
See his monstrous toothpick, boys!
Wonder if he's fastened tight?
There's the lion! see his tail!
How he drags it on the floor!
Sakes alive! I'm awful scared
To hear the horrid creatures roar!
Here's the monkeys in their cage,
Wide awake you are to see 'em;
Funny, ain't it? How would you
Like to have a tail and be 'em?
Johnny, darling, that's the bear
That tore the naughty boys to pieces!
Horned cattle! only hear
How the dreadful camel wheezes!
That's the tall giraffe, my boy,
Who stoops to hear the morning lark;
'Twas him who waded Noah's flood,
And scorned the refuge of the ark.
Here's the crane—the awkward bird!
Strong his neck is as a whaler's;
And his bill is full as long
As ever met one from the tailor's.
Look! just see the zebra there,
Standing safe behind the bars;
Goodness me! how like a flag,
All except the corner stars!
There's the bell! the birds and beasts
Now are going to be fed;
So, my little darlings, come,
It's time for you to be abed.
"Mother, 'tisn't nine o'clock!
You said we needn't go before;
Let us stay a little while—
Want to see the monkeys more!"
Cries the showman, "Turn 'em out!
Dim the lights! there, that will do;
Come again to-morrow, boys;
Bring your little sister, too."
Exit mother, half distraught,
Exit father, muttering "Bore!"
Exit children blubbering still,
"Want to see the monkeys more!"
J. Honeywell.
# Pieces People Ask For/The Saddest Sight

THE SADDEST SIGHT.
When a woman her home would decorate, She stops not at obstacles small or great; But the funniest sight her trials afford Is when madam essays to saw a board.
With her knee on a plank, and the plank on a chair, She poises her saw with a knowing air, Makes several wild rasps at the pencilled line, And is off with a whizz the reverse of fine.
With lips compressed she gets down to work, And crosses the timber jerkity-jerk; She can't keep to the line, her knee slips askew; But she keeps to the work till the board splits in two.
She has damaged the chair, she has ruined the saw, Her back is aching, her hands are raw, And she finds, when she tries to fit her prize, It's an inch too short of the requisite size.
# Pieces People Ask For/The September Gale

THE SEPTEMBER GALE.
I'm not a chicken: I have seen Full many a chill September; And though I was a youngster then, That gale I well remember. The day before my kite-string snapped, And, I my kite pursuing, The wind whisked off my palm-leaf hat; For me two storms were brewing!
It came as quarrels sometimes do, When married folks get clashing: There was a heavy sigh or two Before the fire was flashing; A little stir among the clouds Before they rent asunder; A little rocking of the trees, And then came on the thunder.
Lord! how the ponds and rivers boiled! They seemed like bursting craters! And oaks lay scattered on the ground As if they were p'taters; And all above was in a howl, And all below a clatter,— The earth was like a frying-pan, Or some such hissing matter.
It chanced to be our washing-day, And all our things were drying: The storm came roaring through the lines, And sent them all a-flying; I saw the shirts and petticoats Go riding off like witches; I lost, ah! bitterly I wept,— I lost my Sunday breeches!
I saw them straddling through the air, Alas! too late to win them; I saw them chase the clouds as if The Devil had been in them.
They were my darlings and my pride, My boyhood's only riches,— "Farewell, farewell," I faintly cried, "My breeches! Oh my breeches!"
That night I saw them in my dreams; How changed from what I knew them! The dews had steeped their faded threads, The wind had whistled through them; I saw the wide and ghastly rents Where demon claws had torn them; A hole was in their amplest part, As if an imp had worn them.
I have had many happy years, And tailors kind and clever; But those young pantaloons have gone Forever, and forever! And not till time has cut the last Of all my earthly stitches, This aching heart shall cease to mourn My loved, my long-lost breeches.
O. W. Holmes