OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Bold mariners/How to Tell a Story

HOW TO TELL A STORY.
Over port, pipe, or snuff box, there’s always some wight To tell ye a story at club ev’ry night, Wanting wit, at a pinch, the box helps a bad joke, Or deficient in fire, he supplies ye with smoke. Derry down, down, down, derry down.
Since we’re told to believe only half what we hear, Ev’ry tale we attempt should from fiction be clear, Probability carefully keeping in view; Example, I'll tell a short story or two. Derry down, &c.
Once a man advertis’d the metropolis round, He’d leap off the monument on to the ground, But when just half way down, felt some nervous attack, Grew frighten’d, reflected, turn’d round, and jumped back Derry down, &c.
A boatswain, who ne’er had seen Punch or his wife, To a puppet-shew went, the first time in his life; Laugh’d and wonder’d at ev’ry odd trick and grimace When a barrel of gunpowder blew up the place. Derry down, &c.
​Spectators and puppets were here and there thrown, When Jack on a tree who had safely been blown, Took a quid, blew his whistle, and, not at all vext, Cried, ‘Shiver me, what will this fellow do next?’ Derry down, &c.
A bluff grenadier, under great Marshall Saxe, Had his head cut clean off by a Lochaber axe; But his comrade replac’d it so nice, ere it fell, That a handkerchief tied round his neck made all well. Derry down, &c.
Now his mem’ry was short, and his neck very long, Which he’d bow thus, and thus, when he heard a good song; And one night, beating time to the tale I tell you, He gave such a nod, that away his head flew. Derry down, &c.
I cou’d tell other stories, but here mean to rest, Till what you have heard may have time to digest, Besides ere my narrative verse I pursue, I must find some more subjects all equally true.
DOES HAUGHTY GAUL.
Does haughty Gaul invasion threat? Then let the louns beware, Sir,
# Bold mariners/The Bold Mariners

THE BOLD MARINERS.
YE gentle gales, and smiling springs, Send peace unto our Nation, When Seamen bold can tell their tales, And bless their happy station.
Come, come thou darling treasure come, Hark, how the Cannons rattle! When trumpet sounds, the Boatswain’s call Ploclaim a dreadful battle.
There’s no relief for Seamen brave, When wars are not yet ended; And those who do escape the waves, Let them be well befriended.
The Sailor goes where his duty calls, And dreads no kind of danger; When round him flies the Cannon-balls, His heart ne’er fears a stranger.
When fore and aft the blood-stain’d decks, And loudly groans the dying, The Sailor still, with courage bold, His en’my is destroying.
Then fighting hard with might and main, Behold we’re sorely wounded; ​But still we scorn for to complain When by our foes surrounded.
And if in prison by chance we fall, With loyal hearts most vigour, We’ll cut down our en’mies one and all; King George our King for ever!
The Sun at last, like crimson red, Towards the West retiring, Where lies a heap of Seamen dead, And hundreds more expiring!
Next morn’ the fight was renew’d again, Each Seaman bold at his station, And boldly fought each British Tar, For the honour of his Nation.
Now since it is the Seamen’s fate, When peace shall bless our Nation, For to crave assistance on the street, Give them kind invitation.
Esteem them as your dearest friends, Let them be a’ welcome strangers; You cannot make too much of them, For all their toil and dangers.
O now relieve the Seaman brave, Be mindful of his merit; And when again you’re plung’d in war, He’ll show his daring spirit.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 9/"Alone—together"

“ALONE—TOGETHER.”
I.
Alone, I see the sunrise, from the rocks above the sea;
And the hamlet flushed with rosy light, seems fairy-land to me:
There dwells the pilot’s daughter, whose dear love I’d die to win;
And the blue sky fills my heart with hope, while the merry tide flows in.
II.
’Tis noon—we stand together, on the sands beside the sea;
And the maiden, folded to my heart, is sworn my bride to be!
In the sunshine flash the sea-gulls, skimming waves of rippled light;
The fisher boats ride gaily, under cliffs of dazzling white.
III.
Alone, I see the sunset, from the churchyard near the sea, For the cruel grave-stone at my feet, hides my darling’s face from me! Like some dark pall, the sea-weeds droop from ledges cold and grey; The night-mists shroud the hamlet, and the tide ebbs fast away!
Evelyn Forest.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 7/Am Schweitz

AM SCHWEITZ.
I.
We saw the nest of snow and ice
Where the lauwine was born,
We stood beneath the obelisk
Of that great Matterhorn.
II.
Where’er the timid chamois drinks
We traced the mountain stream,
Around whose curves and shallow slips
Blue stars of gentian gleam.
III.
We saw, from a gray mountain top,
The rainbow in the spray,
Where mimic icebergs float across The blue Marjälen See.
IV.
I hardly can remember all,
It seems so long ago,
Since three of us walked merrily
Among the fields of snow.
V.
The mountains look so lonely,
So scornful of our mirth,
As if they’d sat for ever As Princes of the earth.
VI.
When our world was rolled in fire,
Shapeless among the spheres,
The Alps rose in a bubble To last a million years.
VII.
Shall we tell our little troubles,
Shall we mar the hour that runs,
Shall we raise the ghost of sorrow
Before those kingly ones?
VIII.
Far better be a Crétin,
And sleep with beasts at night,
Than cry for to-morrow, like children,
Or weep for a dead delight.
IX.
Look on the grim old mountains,
And learn of them repose,
They flame in the Morgen-glimmer,
But never melt their snows.
X.
To them we seem no stronger Than foam on a wintry sea;
Our lives will soon be covered By the snows of eternity.
XI.
It is an old old lesson,
And we learned it long ago,
When three of us walked merrily Among the fields of snow.
C. I. E.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 5/Among the deaths

AMONG THE DEATHS.
I.
“Of fever, in Africa, Richard Brand.” The words start clear thro’ the twilight gloom: The Paper drops from her shrinking hand, And the presence of death fills all the room.
II.
A noble room, where the firelight falls,— At fitful intervals falls and fades,— On curtains of silk, on gilded walls, On gleaming marble, crimson brocades.
III.
She waits alone for her husband’s guest, Lord Arthur,—he has dined with them often of late. She waits, in jewels and velvet drest, As befits her beauty and her estate.
IV.
On her arms and bosom, profusely bare, Shine the diamonds she bought on her marriage-day. One red rose rests in the golden hair With which Richard’s fingers have used to play.
V.
Dead—Richard dead! and she is alone, In her silk and velvet and jewels here. O, soft white breast, make never a moan! O, soft brown eyes, shed never a tear!
VI.
The time for moan or tear is over: Nor tear nor moan can bring death to life. What woman need weep for a dead poor lover Who has honour and station,—a rich man’s wife?
VII.
Honour and station! and Richard dead, On the fevered shore of that distant land. No faithful face at his dying bed; No tender lips on his dying hand.
VIII.
And she loved him—she loved him! The poor false heart For a moment bursts out with one honest cry. For a moment the actress forsakes her part: The woman returns to the love gone by.
IX.
And with him once more, in the purple light Of the summer evening, she takes her place; Where the starlit heaven o’er the moor shines white, And all her heaven is on Richard’s face.
X.
His arm is round her; she feels his kiss; And her trembling breath comes thick and low With the familiar foolish bliss. The freshness, the passion of long ago.
XI.
What has she now? Her husband’s name; Settlements; diamonds; five hundred friends To come to her parties; her beauty’s fame; Lord Arthur’s homage. And so it ends.
XII.
No; something more. Far away, up-stairs, Are her children. She sees them every day, I believe;—but with so many vital cares Of dances and dinners, what are they?
XIII.
Perhaps, in a different station, other And humbler duties had lain to her hand. She might have had leisure to be a mother If she had married Richard Brand.
XIV.
But all that is over. Years ago She sold herself freely—body and soul— For the things that she holds in possession now; And the sale was a wise one,—on the whole.
XV.
When Richard last held her to his breast Her lips were stainless, her heart was true; And now—and now—well, let that rest. Richard is dead: let the past die too!
XVI.
Let the past die. The present is all. Lord Arthur’s step is upon the stair. After dinner the opera and the ball; This folly will surely not haunt her there.
XVII.
With a strange wild beauty her cheek is red; With a strange wild lustre her eyes are bright; But still the silent face of the dead Looks full in her face that weary night.
XVIII.
And still, amidst music and whispered sighs, Thro’ her soul goes a shuddering under-breath,— “Better be Richard Brand where he lies Than sunk in the slough of a living death!”
The Author of “Morals of May-Fair.”
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 11/Among the sheaves

AMONG THE SHEAVES.
I.
Among the sheaves—the golden sheaves, An empty heart, I walk forlorn: How sadly sigh the alder leaves— I loathe those fields of mellow corn!
II.
Among the sheaves—the golden sheaves, My heart is full, new hopes are born: My heart is faint—for Hope deceives: My passion may be met by scorn!
III.
Among the sheaves—the golden sheaves, My Love is won! No more forlorn, How sweet the whisp'ring alder leaves— I bless those fields of mellow corn!
Evelyn Forest.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 11/Harvest memories

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# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 11/Ad misericordiam

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# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 9/Clytè

CLYTÈ.
On the sea-shore at Cyprus stood A little shelter’d rustic altar, Where those whom Venus loved could come And pious prayers and praises falter. ’Twas humble, yet the Golden Age Ere tyrants were, had kept it guarded, And centuries long that little fane A sheltering plane had greenly warded.
Up to its marble steps the waves Came creeping, courtier-like, in whispers The Zephyrs spoke among the boughs, Like lovers, or like infant-lispers; Dark violets purpled all the turf Beneath that plane-tree’s soft green shadow, Nowhere the amaranth grew so fair As just within that sea-side meadow.
Phædon, a sculptor, Lemnian born, Had toil’d for years to deck that altar With his best art; no lust for gold Or bad men’s scorn could make him falter; So he had carved his dead love’s face As Clytè—praying still in anguish That for one hour she might return From those dark shades where sad souls languish.
“’Tis done!” one eve the sculptor cried, And knelt in prayer to Aphroditè. His dream stood petrified at last, That marble nymph—his gentle Clytè. The goddess heard him as he knelt, And smiled from rosy clouds, consenting; The maid was ferried back to earth, Pluto for one short hour relenting.
That swelling breast—the lover’s pillow— Was now of Parian crystal whiteness; Those Juno arms, that Jove might fold, Were of a smooth and radiant lightness; Her hair in rippling wave on wave Crown’d a fair head so sweetly mournful, The eyes were full of tender grief, The full-lipp’d mouth was witching scornful.
The room was dark where Phædon knelt, But as he prayed the moonbeams entered, And, like a crown of glory pure, Upon the brow of Clytè centred; Then down her face they gently stole, With silver all her raiment sheathing. His prayer was answered; Phædon cried, “She lives! she lives! I hear her breathing!”
Like one who, rousing from a trance, Reluctant wakes, and half in sorrow, Clytè stepp’d from that pedestal— Death had been vanquish’d till the morrow. She kiss’d her lover’s burning brow, Her soft white arms around him lacing; Venus had sent her from the dead To soothe him with her sweet embracing.
But when day dawn’d and he awoke, That rainbow-dream had pass’d for ever— The nymph had turn’d to stone again, To wake to life and beauty—never. With a deep sigh he kiss’d the lips Of that sweet nymph, once more reposing; Then seized his shaping-steel and clay To toil till life’s long day was closing.
He wept not, but, in patience strong, Thought of the blissful re-uniting, As soldiers do of rest and sleep After a long day’s toilsome fighting; And in his art content he toil’d To deck that fane of Aphroditè, And by him, as he laboured, stood His statue of the gentle Clytè.
Walter Thornbury.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 5/Civile bellum

CIVILE BELLUM.
“In this fearful struggle between North and South, there are hundreds of cases in which fathers are arrayed against sons, brothers against brothers.”—American Paper.
“Rifleman, shoot me a fancy shot
Straight at the heart of yon prowling vidette, Ring me a ball in the glittering spot That shines on his breast like an amulet!”
“ Ay, Captain! here goes for a fine-drawn bead, There’s music around when my barrel’s in tune!”
Crack! went the rifle, the messenger sped, And dead from his horse fell the ringing dragoon.
“Now, Rifleman, steal through the bushes, and snatch
From your victim some trinket to handsel first blood;
A button, a loop, or that luminous patch That gleams in the moon like a diamond stud!”
“ O! Captain, I staggered, and sunk on my track, When I gazed on the face of the fallen vidette, For he looked so like you, as he lay on his back, That my heart rose upon me, and masters me yet.
“ But I snatched off the trinket—this locket of gold— An inch from the centre my lead broke its way, Scarce grazing the picture, so fair to behold, Of a beautiful lady in bridal array.”
“Ha! Rifleman, fling me the locket!—’Tis she, My brother’s young bride—and the fallen dragoon Was her husband—Hush! soldier, ’twas Heaven’s decree, We must bury him; there, by the light of the moon!
“But, hark! the far bugles their warnings unite; War is a virtue—weakness a sin: There’s lurking and loping around us to-night; Load again, Rifleman, keep your hand in!”
From the Once United States.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 6/The child of care

Translation of "Das Kind der Sorge" (1787) by Johann Gottfried Herder
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# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 6/The chase of the Siren

THE CHASE OF THE SIREN.
A DORIC LEGEND.
Ages past a Doric village Heard at night a spirit summons, Sounding over wood and commons, Over fallow, rock, and tillage, Waking all the rustic sleepers, Weary with the toil of tillage.
For that music shook the branches, From their clay nests woke the thrushes; Where the brook thro' fern leaves gushes— Brook that summer scarcely stanches; Woke the bird whose endless sorrow Rest, nor years, nor absence stanches.
Watchmen by the gate's barred portal Woke and heard the spirit calling, As the chill night dew was falling. “Lo!” they said, “’tis an Immortal Come to bless our new-built temple— Now the moonbeam strikes its portal.”
Dusky faces, over doorways, Peered into the moonshine quiet, Thinking it some rustic riot Of god Pan, who often plays To the Bacchants in the midnight. All dark through, so they but praise.
Hark! it rises and it hovers "Where the dew, so fresh and gleaming, Like a diamond treasure beaming, Studs the rose-flowers, dear to lovers. Can it be a wandering Siren Luring Dryads from their lovers?
Now a bird returning seaward, Then it moaneth like the dying; Now it clamours like the flying Of a host fierce driven seaward; Then there comes a sound of pinions As of creatures winging seaward.
Floats through ilex boughs that tangle, Where moss-banks the violets cover. Where the amorous night-moths hover, By the brooks that playful wrangle, Washing round the roots of beeches. Where the water-courses jangle.
Now it seems a Pæan holy Keeping cadence to the beating Of the wild Fauns' golden cymbals, When their blood the wine is heating, When the lambs burn on the turf, And the worshippers are meeting.
Hearing it, the green-mailed adder From the bramble wood came creeping, Then the tortoise from its sleeping Slowly woke, and loud and madder Howled the wolf, as if tormented By those sounds that cheered all other Sounds that Echo answered sadder.
Now it passes to'ards the village, In between the wattled houses, And each drowsy shepherd rouses. Faces stare out on the tillage, Thinking that some god were coming, Or the light-armed hot for pillage.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 10/"The glove"

“THE GLOVE.”
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 3/Contrasts

The illustration, credited to "J. Luard" in the magazine, is probably by John Dalbiac Luard (1830-1860).
CONTRASTS.
Guests, at a nobleman’s board, Drink to the bridal morrow; While, at the breast of the lord Rankles a barb of sorrow.
Hark to the pitiful wail! “That woman, my lord, without; They are taking her off to the gaol.” “Merely a beggar, no doubt.”
“What a singular sighing sound!” Says one of the great, at the table. “John, have you looked to the hound? Make him a bed in the stable.”
Over those steps, again, Entered a bride in the morn, Follow’d by powder’d men, Stff, and stately, and shorn.
Out of a prison den Issued a wretch that morn, Follow’d by brutal men, Eager to see and scorn.
“Quick! or we’ll miss the marriage, Yonder, in Hanover Square. They are off in a splendid carriage: Faith, they’re a splendid pair!”
A birth in a chamber great; A birth in a hospital ward: One in sorrow; one in state; Both the sons of a lord.
Doctors around her bed; Nurses and friends beside. Lightly and softly tread— This is a titled bride.
Cover that face in a shroud: Mention her name no more; Though she was silent and proud, She was plebeian and poor.
The charity brat she bore, Yes! let him grow up in the crowd, Cringe at the nobleman’s door. Cover her face with the shroud: Mention her name no more!
Send the young heir to college, To swim with the wealthy tide; Probing the depths of knowledge, Skimming the shoals of pride.
It may be his natural brother Will hold his horse for a crust; And neither can tell the other Their kinship in common dust.
J. F. F.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 2/The gloves

THE GLOVES.
It was a sunny summer’s day,
The flowers deck’d dale and hill;
And gurglingly the streamlet ran
That turn’d the clatt’ring mill.
The murmurous flies of every tint
Flew glittering through the air;
And buzzing bees did from the limes Their precious treasures bear.
The air was languid, calm, and sweet, With fragrance overlaid; The slenderest grass unruffled stood, The trees no rustle made. A slumb’rous feeling over all Its gentle influence shed; The lark could scarcely warble, as He floated overhead.
And ’neath a broad far-spreading beech A lovely girl reposed; The deep-fringed curtains of her eyes
Serenely o’er them closed.
Her bright brown hair in clusters fell
Upon her healthy cheek;
Her rosy lips were parted as
Some gracious words to speak.
A sunbeam glinting thro’ the tree Play’d on her forehead fair; And still more bright and glowing made The glory of her hair.
I stood and gazed upon that face As beautiful as Love’s; Nor wonder you, if stooping low, I—won a pair of gloves.
J. A. Langford.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 10/"Confidence"

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# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 1/A penny for your thought

A PENNY FOR YOUR THOUGHT.
usband, you are busy thinking, Past and present ever linking; Take a penny for the thought:—
Strike a bargain. Is it bought? Let me know.” “’Tis a fancy over-wrought! Be it so. I remember, long ago, Cupid’s dart Struck my heart; Cupid caught me unaware; On the landing of a stair, Strung his bow. And I’m still acutely feeling (For the wound is never-healing) All the smart Of the blow.
“And a maiden fresh and fair, Sitting yonder in the chair, Saw him do it: Held me by her eyes and hair— By the magic of her air— Held me there While he drew it. Now you know, Pay for hearing!—Only this: But a penny! Take it back, and give—a kiss. One of many.
J. F. F.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 9/Confessions of a captive

CONFESSIONS OF A CAPTIVE. A CAUTION BY A CONFIRMED CYNIC.
Soft, versifying youths that prate, And think themselves immensely clever, Their elders often irritate, By writing love-sick rhymes for ever— A practice we abominate: Shall we succumb to gammon? Never!
Not that I hate the fellows’ rhymes: Once I was young too and enamoured: Ah, me! those were transcendent times! How often I my passion clamoured, And loves and woes in jingling chimes, Like smith on anvil, stoutly hammered!
Looked love to eyes that looked again— Reciprocation rather pleasant, And apt to stir both heart and brain Of every grade, from peer to peasant! Hold hard! this is a silly strain: I’m quite oblivious of the present!
For I’ve a wife—a tender spouse, Once the ideal of my fancies; But, since we took to keeping house, It happened—as it always chances— We bade adieu to raptured vows, For real life is not Romance’s!
That’s why the novels mostly end At entrance into matrimony! The writers may, perhaps, pretend, ’Tis one long round of bliss and honey— A theory so odd, my friend, That makes a victim rather funny!
Too soon one feels, when fairly hooked, The iron doom, depend upon it! One’s way of life for ever crooked, A zigzag orbit round a bonnet! Connubial bliss, though fair it looked, Proves no fit theme for mirthful sonnet!
Hard, say the martyrs, is their fate: Ask them from Petersburg to Cadiz: And yet you youngsters idly prate Of love, and bliss, and witching ladies! Be warned in time, or know too late, You never can retreat from Hades!
T. Steele.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 2/God help our men at sea

GOD HELP OUR MEN AT SEA.
God help our men at sea!
In firelit, pictured rooms, ’mid wine and flowers,
And gleesome company,
The wild winds awe us, in our blithest hours,
To sigh this prayer;
And, lonely, with clenched hands, at night ’tis ours,
“Lord of the waves, O spare!”
God help our men at sea!
I had a brother once. Our love ne’er fail’d In its intensity.
Smiling on our sweet mother, as he sail’d,
I saw him last.
Ah me! how that sweet mother droop’d and paled
Ere one brief year had pass’d!
God help our men at sea!
They saw him, who outlived that deathful night,
In his extremity,—
Kneeling, and looking, in the stormfire’s light,
To Heaven for grace.
And angels’ glory was upon him, bright
As upon Stephen’s face.
God help our men at sea!
Those pilgrim fathers, who leave all to teach
Their Saviour’s charity.
May their prayers, like St. Paul’s, in tempest reach
His ears, who said,
With an exceeding tenderness of speech,—
“’Tis I. Be not afraid!”
God help our men at sea!
The workers, who at home can find no spheres
For work; whom poverty
Drives from their birthland, strong, despite those tears,
To toil, and win;
And then, please God, return for peaceful years
To their own land and kin.
God help our men at sea! If lust of power or of revenge assail
England’s tranquillity,
Using His gracious gifts, we shall prevail,
As oft before.
And Israel see the proud Egyptians pale
And “dead on the sea-shore.”
S. Reynolds Hole.