OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Twine weel the plaiden (1)/Beadle of the Parish

beadle of the parish.
I’m a very knowing prig, With my laced coat and wig, Though they say I am surly and bearish Sure I look a mighty man, When I flourish my rattan, To fright the little boys, Who in church-time make a noise, Because I’m beadle of the Parish. Here and there,—every where? Hollo now,— What’s the row? Fine to do,—Who are you? Why, zounds, I’m the Beadle of the Parish.
Whenever I come nigh, How I make the beggars fly, My looks are so angry and scarish, Like other city folks, I do business in the stocks. And whate’er is lost l tell, For you know I bear the bell, Because I’m the Beadle of the Parish,
Holla, fellow—You are mellow, Fine to do,—don’t you see, Why, zounds—I'm the Beadle of the Parish.
I’m an officer, don't laugh, But indeed I'm on the staff, And all sax I do pretty fairish; On a Sunday strut about, And I keep the rabble out,——— The Church-wardens march before. Just to open the pew door, Because I am Beadle of the Parish. Puff away,———merry day, Drink about,———See it out, There will be———snacks for me, Because I'm the Beadle of the Parish.
# Twine weel the plaiden (1)/O Jeanie, There's Naething to Fear Ye

o jeanie, there's naething to fear ye.
O! My lassie, our joy to complete again, Meet me again in the gloamin, my dearie: Low down i’ the dell let us meet again, O! Jeanie there’s naething to fear ye: Come when the wee bat flits silent an’ eerie: Come when the pale face o’ nature looks weary Love be thy sure defence, Beauty and innocence— O, Jeanie, there’s naething to fear.
​Sweetly blaws the haw an' the rowan-tree, Wild roses speck our thicket so breerie; Still will our bed in the greenwood be——— O, Jeanie there’s naething to fear ye, Note when the blackbird o’ singing is weary, List when the beetle bee’s bugle comes near ye, Then come with fairy haste, Light foot and beating breast——— O, Jeanie, there’s naething to fear ye.
Far, far, will the bogle and brownie be; Beauty an' truth, they darena come neari(illegible text), Kind love is the tie of our unity, A’ maun love it, an’ a’ maun revere it Love maks the sang o’ the woodland so cheer(illegible text) Love gars a’ nature look bonnie that’s near ye, Love maks the rose sae sweet, Cowslip an’ violet——— O, Jeanie, there’s naethiug to fear ye.
# Twine weel the plaiden (1)/The Irish Fisherman

the irish fisherman.
An Irishman angling one day in the Liffy, Which runs down by Dublin’s sweet city so fine; A smart shower of rain falling, Pat in a giffy, Crept under the arch of a bridge with his line.
​"Why that’s not the way to accomplish your wishes," Cries Dermot, “ the devil a bite you will get;" "Och, bother,” says Pat, “don’t you know that the fishes, Will flock under here to keep out of the wet.”
# Twine weel the plaiden (1)/Merting of the Waters

merting of the waters.
There is not in this wide world a valley so sweet, As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet, Oh! the last ray of feeling and life must depart, Ere the bloom of that vallty shall fade from my heart! Yet it was not that Nature had shed o’er the scene, Her purest of chrystal and brghtest of green: 'Twas not the soft magic of streamlet or hill ; Oh! no———it was something more exquisite still?
’Twas that friends, the beloved of my bosom, were near, Who made every dear scene of enchantment more dear;
And who felt how the best charms of nature improve, When we see them reflected from looks that we love.
Sweet vale of Ovoca ! how could I rest, In thy bosom of shade with the friends I love best, Where the storms which we feel in this cold world shall cease, And our hearts like thv waters, be mingled in peace.
# Twine weel the plaiden (1)/The Deer Hunter

the deer hunter.
Hark away ‘tis the merry ton’d horn, Calls the hunters all up with the morn, To the hills and the woodlands we steer, To unharbour the out-lying deer. And all the day long this is our song, This is our song, Still hollowing & following so frolic and free Our joys know no bounds, While we’re after the hounds, No mortals on earth are so jolly as we.
Round the woods when we beat how we glow While the hills they all echo Hollow ! With a bounce from his cover the stag flies, Then our shouts long resound through the skies And all the day long, &c.
​When we sweep o’er the valleys or climb Up the health breaking mountain sublime, What a joy from our labours we feel, Which alone they who taste can reveal, And all the day long, &c.
# Twine weel the plaiden (1)/Native Land

native land!
Native land! I’ll love thee ever, Let me raise the welcome strain ; Mine were banish’d feet, that never Hop’d to press thy turf again, Now these eyes illum’d, with gladness, As they scan’d thy beauties o’er, Ne'er again shall melt in sadness, Parting to return no more, Caledonia, native land, Native land, I'll love the ever.
Native land, tho’ fate may banish, And command me far to part, Never can thy mem’ry vanish, From this glowing, grateful heart, Let an Indian solstice burn me. Or the snows of Norway chill, Hither still, my heart, I turn thee, Here, my country, thou art still, Caledonia, native land, Native land, I'll love thee ever.
# John Anderson my Jo/John Anderson, My Jo

JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO.
John Anderson, my jo, John, When we were first acquent, Your locks were like the raven, Your bonnie brow was brent; But now your head’s turned bald, John, Your locks are like the snow, Yet blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson, my jo.
John Anderson, my jo, John, When Nature first began, To try her cannie hand, John, Her master-work was man; And you amang them a’ John, Sae trig frae tap to toe, She proved to be nae journey-work, John Anderson, my jo.
John Anderson, my jo, John, Ye were my first conceit, And ye need not think it strange, John, Though I ca’ ye trim and neat; Though some folks say ye’re auld, John, I never think you so, But I think ye’re aye the same to me, John Anderson, my jo.
John Anderson, my jo, John, We’ve seen our bairn’s bairns, And yet, my dear John Anderson, (illegible text)happy in your arms;
​And sae are ye in mine, John, I’m sure ye’ll ne’er say no, Though the days are gane that we have seen, John Anderson, my jo.
John Anderson, my jo, John, What pleasure does it gie, To see so many sprouts, John, Spring up ’tween you and me; And ilka lad and lass, John, In our footsteps to go, Make perfect heaven here on earth, John Anderson, my jo.
John Anderson, my jo, John, Frae year to year we’ve past, And soon that year maun come, John, Will bring us to our last; But let na that affright us, John, Our hearts were ne’er our foe, While in innocent delight we lived, John Anderson, my jo.
John Anderson, my jo, John, We clamb the hill thegither, And many a cantie day, John, We’ve had with ane anither; Now we maun totter down, John, But hand in hand we’ll go, And we’ll sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson, my jo.
# John Anderson my Jo/Low Down in the Broom

LOW DOWN IN THE BROOM.
My daddie is a canker’d carle, He’ll no twine with his gear, My minnie she’s a scaulding wife, Hands a’ the house a-steer; But let them say, or let them do, Its a’ ane to me, For he’s low down, he’s in the broom, That’s waiting on me; Waiting on me, my love, He’s waiting on me; For he’s low down, he’s in the broom, That’s waiting on me.
My auntie Kate sits at her wheel, And sair she lightlies me; But weel ken I, it’s a envy, For ne’er a joe has she. But let them say, &c.
My cousin Kate was sair beguil’d With Johnnie in the glen; And aye since syne, she cries, beware O’ false deluding men. But let them say, &c.
Gleed Sandy he came wast ae night, And speir’d when I saw Pate? And aye since syne the neighbours round They jeer me air and late. But let them say, or let them do. Its a’ ane to me; For I’ll gae to the bonny lad That’s waiting on me;
​Waiting on me, my love, He’s waiting on me; For he’s low down, he’s in the broom, That’s waiting on me.
# John Anderson my Jo/It Was Upon a Lammas Light

IT WAS UPON A LAMMAS NIGHT.
It was upon a Lammas night, When corn rigs are bonny, Beneath the moon’s unclouded light, I hied awa’ to Annie; The time flew by wi’ tentless head, Till ’tween the late and early: Wi’ sma’ persuasion she agreed To see me thro’ the barley. O corn rigs and barley rigs, An’ corn rigs are bonny: I’ll ne’er forget that happy night Amang the rigs wi’ Annie.
The sky was blue, the wind was still, The moon was shining clearly; I set her down wi’ right good will, Amang the rigs o’ barley. I kent her heart was a’ my ain, I loe’d her most sincerely; I kiss’d her owre and owre again, Amang the rigs o’ barley!
I lock’d her in my fond embrace, Her heart was beating rarely; My blessings on that happy place, Amang the rigs o’ barley!
​But by the moon and stars so bright, That shone that hour so clearly! She aye shall bless that happy night, Amang the rigs o’ barley.
I hae been blythe wi’ comrades dear, I hae been merry drinkin’; I hae been joyfu' gathering gear, I hae been happy thinkin; But of a’ the pleasures e’er I saw, Tho’ three times doubled fairly, That happy night was worth them a’, Amang the rigs o’ barley.
# John Anderson my Jo/The Banks O' Doon

THE BANKS O’ DOON.
YE banks and braes o’ bonny Doon, How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair, How can ye chaunt, ye little birds, And I sae weary fu’ o’ care. How can ye chaunt, ye little birds, That wanton through the flow’ry thorn; Ye mind me o’ departed joys, Departed never to return.
Oft hae I roam’d by bonny Doon, To see the rose and woodbine twine; Whar ilka bird sang o’ its love, And fondly sae did I o’ mine. Wi’ lightsome heart I pu’d a rose, Fu’ sweet upon its thorny tree; And my fause love has stown the rose, But ah! he left the thorn wi’ me.
# John Anderson my Jo/The Land of the Leal

THE LAND OF THE LEAL.
I’M wearing awa, Jean, Like snaw when its thaw, Jean; I’m wearing awa, Jean, To the land o’ the leal. There’s nae sorrow there, Jean, There’s nae cauld nor care, Jean; The day is aye fair, Jean, In the land o’ the leal.
Ye were aye leal and true, Jean, Your task’s ended now, Jean, And I’ll welcome you, Jean, To the land o’ the leal. Our bonny bairn’s there, Jean, She was baith gude and fair, Jean, And we grudg’d her right sair, Jean, To the land o’ the leal.
Then dry that tearfu’ e’e, Jean, My soul langs to be free, Jean, And Angels wait on me, Jean, To the land o’ the leal. But sorrow’s sell wears past, Jean, And joy’s coming fast, Jean, The joy that’s aye to last, Jean, In the land o’ the leal.
Our friends are a’ gane, Jean, We’ve long been left alane, Jean; We’ll a’ meet again, Jean, In the land o’ the leal.
​Now fare ye weel, my ain Jean, This warld’s care is vain, Jean, We’ll meet and aye be fain, Jean, In the land o’ the leal.
# John Anderson my Jo/Lubin is Away

LUBIN IS AWAY.
My mother bids me bind my hair With bands of rosy hue, Tie up my sleeves with ribbons rare, And lace my boddice blue. For why, she cries, sit still and weep, While others dance and play? Alas! I scarce can go or creep, While Lubin is away.
’Tis sad to think the days are gone, When those we love are near; I sit upon this mossy stone, And sigh when none can hear. And while I spin my flaxen thread, Or sing my simple lay, The village seems asleep or dead, Since Lubin is away.
# Young Lochinvar (2)

Young Lochinvar;
To which are added,
THE ROSE OF DUNMORE,
SCOTTISH WHISKY,
Blythe was She But and Ben,
Sleeping Maggie,
SHEPHERDS, I HAVE LOST MY LOVE.
GLASGOW: Printed for the Booksellers.
1828.
* Young Lochinvar
* The Rose of Dunmore
* Scottish Whisky
* Blythe Was She
* Sleepin' Maggy
* Banks of Banna
This work was published before January 1, 1930, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# Young Lochinvar (2)/Young Lochinvar

YOUNG LOCHINVAR.
O' Young Lochinvar has come out of ⟨the⟩ west, ⟨Through⟩ all the wide border his steed was the best; And save his good broadsword, he weapons had none, He rode all unarm'd, and he rode all alone. So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war. There never ⟨was⟩ knight like the young ⟨Lochinvar.⟩
He staid not for brake, and he stopped not for stone, He swam the Esk river where ford there was none; But, ere he alighted at Netherby gare, The bride had consented, the gallant came late; For a laggard in love and a dastard in war, Was to wed the fair Helen of brave Lochinvar.
So boldly he enter'd the Netherby Hall: Among bridemen, and kinsmen and brothers and all; Then spake the bride's father, his hand on his sword, (For the poor craven ⟨bridegroom⟩ said nevera word,) "O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, Or to dance at our bridal, young lord Lochinvar?"
"I long woo'd your daughter, my suit you denied; Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs as its tide— And now I am come with this lost love of mine, To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine. There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far— That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar."
​The bride kiss'd the goblet; the knight took it up, He quaff'd off the wine, and he threw down the cup. She look'd down to blush, and she look'd up to sigh, With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye. He took her soft hand, e'er her mother could bar, 'Now tread we a measure!' said young Lochinvar.
So stately his form, and so lovely her face, That never a hall suck a galliard did grace; While her mother did fret, and her father did fume, And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume; And the bride-maiden's whisper'd 'twere better by far To have match'd our fair cousin with young Lochinvar.
One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear, When they reach'd the hall door, and the charger stood near; So light to the croup the fair lady he swung, So light to the saddle before her he sprung! She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur; They'll have fleet steeds that follow, quoth young Lochinvar.
There was mounting 'mong Grames of the Netherby clan; Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran; There was racing and chasing, on Cannobie lee, But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see, So daring in love, and so dauntless in war, Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar.
# Young Lochinvar (2)/The Rose of Dunmore

THE ROSE OF DUNMORE.
As I went a walking out early, Bright Phœbus most sweetly did shine, And the nightingale warbled melodious, As the lusin that falls from the glen. It's down thro' a grove where I walked, A while to condole in a shade, On my destiny for to ponder, It's there I beheld a sweet maid.
I cast forth my eyes for to view, And thus unto her I did say, You fair has my heart ensnared, How far thro' the grove dost thou stray? She answered, sir, I will tell you, The truth unto you I'll explore, Of a matter that lately befel me, My dwelling lies near Dunmore.
Once I did love a brave hero, Till my tender heart he did gain, No mortal ever lov'd dearer, But now he is ploughing the main, All under brave Nelson for battle, And our English Navy so brave, Where cannons and guns loudly rattle, Against the proud French on the main.
He says, now my fair, so ensnaring, Perhaps your true-love he is slain, As many a man fell a victim, And fell by the French on the main; So it might happen with your love.
As it hath done with many before, ​I pray come with me to Rathfriland, And bid a farewell to Dunmore.
How could I be thus so inconstant, And promised so much to be true, To leave my old sweetheart lamenting, And venture all fortune with you; The people would call me hard hearted, For fidelity to him I've swore, That our loves should never be parted, But wait for the youth in Dunmore.
Since it is so now decreed, That I now a victim must fall, I cannot refrain now but mourn, Tho' I am no better at all. I still live in expectation, Of that charming youth I adore, I hope to my great consolation, To meet him with joy in Dunmore.
Cheeks like the fair beauties blown, Your summer will soon be o'er, October winds will be blown, And blast the sweet rose of Dunmore, I found that her heart was failing, As many had done before, I hoist up my sails for Rathfriland, And gained the sweet rose of Dunmore.
# Young Lochinvar (2)/Scottish Whisky

SCOTTISH WHISKY.
Ye social sons of Scotia's isle, Who love to rant and roar, Sir.
To drink, to dance, to langh, to sing, And hie withouten care, Sir; ​Attend and listen to my lays, 'Twill make you blithe and friskie; I sing, who dare my theme despise? In praise of guid Scots Whisky. O my cheering, care-dispelling, Heart-reviving Whisky; Thou brightens up the gloom of life, That aft look dark and duskie.
Let Frenchmen o' their bev'rage boast, The juice of Gallic vine. Sir, And Dons and Portuguese rehearse The praises o' their wine, Sir; I don't envy them with their tons, Gi'e me a little caskie O' Caledonia's nectar pure, The real Scottish Whisky. O my cheering, &c.
Jamaica Rum it's but a hum, So is the best Antigua; And Holland's gin no worth, a pin, Compar'd wi' dear Kilbegie. Whoever wants to take a house, Or have a jovial pliskie, They only need to weet their mou's Wi' real Scottish Whisky. O my cheering, &c.
# Young Lochinvar (2)/Blythe Was She

BLYTHE WAS SHE.
Blythe, blythe and merry was she, Blythe was she but and ben: Blythe by the banks of Earn, And blythe in Glenturin glen
​By Ochtertyre grows the aik, On Yarrow braes the birken shaw; But Phemie was a bonnier lass, Than braes o' Yarrow ever saw. Blythe, &c.
Her looks were like a flower in May, Her smile was like a summer morn; She tripped by the banks o' Earn, As light's a bird upon a thorn. Blythe, &c.
Her bonny face it was as meek, As onie lamb npon a lee; The ev'ning sun ⟨was⟩ ne'er sae sweet As was the blink o' Phemie's ee. Blythe, &c.
The Highland hills I've wander'd wide, And o'er the Lowlands I ⟨hae⟩ been; But Phemie was the blythest lass, That ever tred the dewy green. Blythe, &c.
# Young Lochinvar (2)/Sleepin' Maggy

SLEEPIN' MAGGY.
Mirk an' rainy is the night, No a starn in a' the carry, Lightnings gleam athwart the lift, An' win's drive wi' winter's fury. O are ye sleepin', Maggy, O are ye sleepin', Maggy; Let me in, for loud the linn, Is roaring o'er the warlock craigie.
​Fearfu' soughs the boor-tree bank The rifted wood roars wild an' dreary, Loud the iron yate does clank, And cry o' howlets maks me eerie. O are ye sleepin', Maggy, &c.
Aboon my breath I darena speak, For fear I rouse your waukrife daddie, Cauld's the blast upon my cheek, O rise, rise my bonny lady! O are ye sleepin', Maggy, &c.
She's op't the door she's let him in, He cuist aside his dreeping plaidie; "Blaw your warst ye rain an' win', Since now I'm in aside ye, Maggy."
# Young Lochinvar (2)/Banks of Banna

BANKS OF BANNA.
Shepherds, I have lost my love, Have you seen my Anna, Pride of ev'ry shady grove, Upon the banks of Banna? I for her my home forsook, Near yon misty mountain, Left my flock, my pipe, my crook, Greenwood shade aud fountain.
Never shall I see them more, Until her returning; All the joys of life are o'er, From gladness chang'd to mourning. Whither is my charmer flown! Shepherds, tell me whither? Ah, woe for me! perhaps she's gone For ever, and for ever.
# Home, Sweet Home (1829)

Home, Sweet Home,
Look forward with Hope for
To-Morrow,
AULD ROB MORRIS,
THE HARP THAT ONCE,
AND
DONALD MACDONALD.
STIRLING
PRINTED BY WILLIAM MACNIE,
And Sold Wholesale and Retail.
1829.
* Home, Sweet Home
* Look Forward with Hope for To-Morrow
* Auld Rob Morris
* The Harp That Once
* Donald McDonald
This work was published before January 1, 1930, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# Home, Sweet Home (1829)/Look Forward with Hope for To-Morrow

LOOK FORWARD WITH HOPE FOR TO-MORROW.
IN the downhill of life, when I find I'm declining, May my fate no less fortunate be, Than a snug elbow chair can afford for reclining, And a cot that o'er’ooks the wide sea With an ambling pad poney, to pace o’er the lawn, While I carol away idle sorrow; And blithe as the lark, that each day hails the dawn, Look forward with hope for to-morrow.
With a porch at my door, both for shelter and shade too, As the sunshine or rain may prevail; A small spot of ground for the use of the spade too, And a barn for the use of the flail. A cow for my dairy, a dog for my game, And a purse when a friend wants to borrow; I’ll envy no Nabob his riches or fame, Nor what honour awaits him to-morrow.
​From the bleak northern blast may ray cot be completely Secured by a neighbouring hill; At night, may repose steal upon me more sweetly, By the vide of a murmuring rill; And, while peace and plenty I find at my board, With a heart free from sickness and sorrow, With my friends will I share what to-day may afford, And let them spread the table to-morrow.
But when I at last must throw off this frail covering. Which I’ve worn for threescere years and ten, On the brink of the grave I'll not seek to keep hovering, Nor my thread wish to spin o'er again; But my face in a glass I'll serenely survey, And with smiles count each wrinkle and furrow, As this old worn-out stuff which is thread-bare to-day, May become everlasting to-morrow.
# Home, Sweet Home (1829)/The Harp That Once

THE HARP THAT ONCE.
The Harp that once through Tara’s halls The soul of music shed, Now hangs as mute as Para's walls As if that soul was fled:— So sleep's the pride of former days, So glory's thrill is o'er; And hearts that once beat high for praise, Now feel that pulse no more.
​No more to chiefs and ladies bright The harp of Para swells; The chord alone, that breaks at night, It's tale of ruin tells: Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes, The only throb she gives, Is when some heart indignant breaks, To show that still she lives.
# Two sailors outwitted, or, Eggs and bacon/Two Sailors Outwitted

TWO SAILORS OUTWITTED.
All you that sail the foaming ocean, listen a while and you shall hear, And I will tell you of a portion, fell to one that sail’d the sea In Herriot’s fields two sailors walking, their pockets being well lin’d with gold; And as they were together talking, a woman there they did behold,
With her lap tuck’d up, and a big basket, and the poor woman for to ease, To carry her basket, one of them asked, her answer was, Sir if you please.
But, O kind Sir, I do not know you, my basket’s full of eggs, take care, And if chance be, you do out-go me, at half-way-house pray leave them there.
But this poor woman to bite the biter, at half-way-house they passed by, To see them fond the stept the lighter, but still upon them she kept an eye.
When these two sailors came to quarters, they thought they’d left her in the fields, But oh! alake! they were all mistaken, for she was close in at their heels.
​They called for a pint of porter, she heard them laugh at what was done, Oh! such fools as are in the world, on her we’ve put some clever fun.
O laud, Olaud, bring's here some bacon, here’seggsenough we’ll havesomedrest, But these two sailors were sadly mistaken, as you shall see before we’ve done.
Then pulling up the basket nimbly, thinking for to divide the spoil, But, Oh! alake! they were all mistaken, instead of eggs they’d got a child.
The landlord cries, instead or feasting on eggs and bacon, boys, you see, Out for a nurse you must be looking, for by this woman fool’d you be.
One said by me this woman was pity'd, all for to ease her of her pain; But, Oh! alake! I am all outwitted, I’ve got a bastard to maintain.
Here’s 500 pounds of good red guineas, who will take this child trom me; Tell down, tell down, said she the money, and I will do that fame for thee.
Witnesses being to prove the action, I think said she I may be free, To tell the truth for satisfaction, the father of this child you be.
​What the duce, said he, are you that Nancy with whom I danc’d, and did betray? O yes, said she, and for a fancy, I think you did the fidler pay.
But indeed I think it very artful, much love & kindness have been shown, Oh then the sailor did commend her, and swore the money was her own.
He took the child and this he swore, a child in that who would have thought, I never shall have eggs no more, so farewel all—I bid good-night.