OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Sentimental reciter/The Sailor's Return

THE SAILOR’S RETURN.
When time brought me back to my father’s again, To our auld cot that stood by the glen side alane: Wi’ a changed heart I passed by the burn an’ the shaw Whaur I sported the blythe hours o’ boyhood awa’.
I stepp’d in at the door, and I look’d a’ aroun’, But I saw na a face an’ I heard na a soun’; At length frae the room my auld faither crept nigh, But he kenn'd na the face o’ his ain sailor boy.
I took the wee creepy the first thing I gat, Syne doon by the ance cheery ingle I sat— Quo’ I, this shall be my hame for ae nicht I ween, It is lang since I sat by a peat hearth at e’en.
My faither said, freely yese share o’ my hame, Wha kens, my ain boy may be seekin’ the same; He has long been awa’ at the wearisome sea, And a sailor’s like ane o’ my ain house to me.
Three sisters, a’ young things when I gaed awa’, Were noo grown to women, an’ married were twa’; The third wi’ my faither, gay, blythsome and free, Cam’ in unco weel pleased a sailor to sec.
I had a gude store o’ the rich gowden coin, For fortune in thae days upon me did shine— Wi’ a feck o’t, I said, tak’ this present frae me, And thank your ain boy for’t, sae lang at the sea.
They looked upon ither, while fast the tears fell; They spak’ na a word, and I maist grat mysel’, But silent they look’d, gaid an’ cam’ back again, Amaist fear'd to ask me if I was their ain.
We sat maist a’ night an’ the peats gat a heize; I thought the auld cot wad hae burn’d wi’ the bleeze. My sister, wi’ merry heart, tauld me maist a’ That was strange frae the vera day I gaed awa’.
My faither seem’d shakin’ aff some o’ his years, As be ran o’er his combats, his hopes, and his fears; An’ in pride o’ auld age cam’ the look and the smile, That tauld hoo his heart was uplifted the while.
​That night I forgat a’ the toil an’ the pain O’ wearisome years on the dangerous main; But my mither was gane ere I gaed to the sea, An' a sigh o' regret passed amid a’ the glee.
# Sentimental reciter/The Idiot

THE IDIOT.
Nature had formed poor hapless Ned A thing of idiot mind; Yet to the poor unreasoning boy She was not quite unkind;
For Sarah lov’d her hapless child, Whom helplessness made dear; And life was happiness to him, Who had no hope nor fear.
She knew his wants, she understood Each half artic’late call; And he was ev’ry thing to her, And she to him was all.
And so for many a year they dwelt, Nor knew a wish beside; But age at length on Sarah came, And she fell sick and died.
He tried in vain to waken her, And call’d her o’er and o’er; They told him she was dead—the sound To him no import bore.
They clos’d her eyes and shrouded her, And he stood wond’ring by; And when they bore her to the grave, He follow’d silently.
They laid her in the narrow house, They sung the funeral stave; But when the funeral train dispers’d, He loiter’d near the grave.
The rabble boys who used to jeer, Whene’er they saw poor Ned, Now stood and watch’d him at the grave, And not a word they said.
​They came and went, and came again, Till night at last came on; And still he loiter’d by the grave, Till all the rest were gone.
And when he found himself alone, He quick removed the clay; And rais’d the coffin up in haste, And bore it swift away.
And when he reach’d his hut, he laid The coffin on the floor; And with the eagerness of joy, He barr’d the cottage door!
And out he took his mother’s corpse And placed it on a chair; And then he heap’d the hearth, and blew The kindling fire with care.
He placed his mother in her chair, And in her wonted place; And blew the kindling fire, that shone Reflected on her face.
And pausing, now her hand would feel, And now her face behold; “Why, mother, do you look so pale? And why are you so cold?"
It hath pleas’d God, from the poor wretch, His only friend to call; But God was kind to him, and soon In death restor’d them all.
# Sentimental reciter/The Dewy Eve

THE DEWY EVE.
The dewy eve, the dewy eve, Oh! that’s the hour for those that grieve;— Wo hates the garish light of day, And from the world hastes far away, To hide the dimm’d and tearful eye; To heave unheard the lab’ring sigh; And cloak in twilight’s pall the grief That finds in utterance relief, Soothing and balmy, if but brief.
​The dewy eve, the dewy eve, Oh! that’s the time when men believe The wild romance or fairy tale, At which the urchin’s cheek turns pale; ’Tis then they harvest soothing thought, With wisdom or with fancy fraught; Then gladly seek in stilly sleep A refuge from these musings deep That, changeful, make us smile or weep.
The dewy eve, the dewy eve, ’Tis then that strange wild fancies cleave With shadowy dim, but forceful sway Around the heart; ’tis then that fay, Peri, and genii, dance along The verdant mead, with shout and song;— How blythe their empire! Till ’tis past, Fiend and demon of the blast Are held in leaden bondage fast!
The dewy eve, the dewy eve, In that calm time, who would not leave The festal hall—the busy strife Of warring thoughts—the hum of life, To brush from off the heather bell, Or primrose in sequestered dell, The freshening damp that at that hour Falls, all unseen a gentle shower, Symbol of Nature’s love and power. Atkinson
# Sentimental reciter/The Old Farm Gate

THE OLD FARM GATE.
Where, where is the gate that once served to divide The elm-shaded lane from the dusty road-side? I like not this barrier gaily bedight, With its glittering latch and its trellis of white; It is seemly I own—yet, oh! dearer by far Was the red-rusted hinge and the weather warped bar. Here are fashion and form of a modernized date, But I’d rather have look'd on the Old Farm Gate.
’Twas here where the urchins would gather to play In the shadows of twilight or sunny mid-day; For the stream running nigh, and the hillocks of sand Were temptations no dirt-loving rogue could withstand,
​But to swing on the gate-rails, to clamber and ride Was the utmost of pleasure, of glory and pride; And the car of the victor, or carriage of state, Never carried such hearts as the Old Farm Gate.
'Twas here where the miller’s son paced to and fro, When the moon was above, and the glow-worm below; Now pensively leaning, now twirling his stick, While the moments grew long and his heart-throbs grew quick— Why, why did he linger so restlessly there, With church-going vestment and sprucely-combed hair? He loved, oh! he loved, and had promised to wait For the one he adored, at the Old Farm Gate.
’Twas here where the grey-headed gossips would meet; And the falling of markets, or goodness of wheat— This field lying fallow—that heifer just bought— Were favourite themes for discussion and thought. The merits and faults of a neighbour just dead— The hopes of a couple about to be wed— The parliament doings—the bill and debate— Were all canvassed and weighed at the Old Farm Gate.
’Twas over that gate I taught Pincher to bound With the strength of a steed and the grace of a hound: The beagle might hunt, and the spaniel might swim, But none could leap over that postern like him. When Dobbin was saddled for mirth-making trip, And the quickly pull’d willow branch served for a whip; Spite of hugging and tugging he'd stand for his freight, While I climbed on his back from the Old Farm Gate.
’Tis well to pass portals where pleasure and fame May come winging our moments and gilding our name, But give me the joy and the freshness of mind, When, away on some sport—the old gate slamm’d behind— I’ve listened to music, but none that could speak In such tones to my heart as the teeth-setting creak That broke on my ear when the night had worn late, And the dear ones came home thro’ the Old Farm Gate.
Oh! fair is the barrier taking its place, But it darkens a picture my soul longed to trace— I sigh to behold the rough staple and hasp, And the rails that my growing hand scarcely could clasp.
​Oh! how strongly the warm spirit grudges to part With the commonest relic once linked to the heart; And the brightest of fortune—the kindliest fate— Would not banish my love for the Old Farm Gate. Eliza Cook
# Sentimental reciter/The Suicide

THE SUICIDE.
She left her Infant on the Sunday morn— A creature doom’d to sin—in sorrow born; She came not home to share our humble meal, Her father thinking what his child might feel From his hard sentence. Still she came not home. The night grew dark, and yet she was not come; The east wind roar’d, the sea returned the sound, And the rain fell, as if the world were drown’d; There were no lights without, and my goodman To kindness frightened—with a groan began To talk of Ruth, and pray—and then he took The Bible down, and read the holy book: For he had learning, and when that was done He sat in silence.-—Whither could we run, He said—and then rush’d frightened from the door, For we could bear our own conceits no more. We call’d our neighbours—there she had not been: We met some wanderers—our’s they had not seen; We hurried o’er the beach, both north and south, Then joined and hurried to our haven’s mouth, Where rush’d the falling waters wildly out; I scarcely heard the goodman’s fearful shout, Who saw a something on the billows’ side, And Heaven have mercy on our sins, he cried, It is my child—and to the present hour So he believes that spirits have the power.
And she was gone—the waters wide and deep Roll’d o’er her body as she lay asleep. She heard no more the angry waves and wind, She heard no more the threat'nings of mankind; Wrapt in dark weeds, the refuge of the storm, To the hard rock was borne her comely form.
But oh! what storm was in that mind! what strife, That could compel her to lay down her life! For she was seen within the sea to wade By one at a distance, when she first had pray’d:
​Then to a rock within the hither shoal, Softly, and with a fearful step she stole! Then, when she gain’d it, on the top she stood A moment still—and dropp’d into the flood! Crabbe
# Sentimental reciter/Lord Ullin's Daughter

LORD ULLIN’S DAUGHTER.
A chieftain, to the Highlands bound, Cries, “ Boatman, do not tarry! And I’ll give thee a silver pound, To row us o’er the ferry.”
“Now who be ye would cross Lochgyle, This dark and stormy water?” “O, I’m the chief of Ulva's isle, And this Lord Ullin’s daughter.
“And fast before her father's men Three days we’ve fled together; For should he find us in the glen, My blood would stain the heather.
“His horsemen hard behind us ride; Should they our steps discover, Then who will cheer my bonny bride When they have slain her lover!”
Out spoke the hardy Highland wight, “I’ll go, my chief—I’m ready:— It is not for your silver bright; But for your winsome lady:
“And by my word! the bonny bird In danger shall not tarry; So though the waves are raging white, I’ll row you o’er the ferry.”
By this the storm grew loud apace, The water-wraith was shrieking; And in the scowl of heaven each face Grew dark as they were speaking.
​But still as wilder blew the wind, And as the night grew drearer, Adown the glen rode armed men, Their trampling sounded nearer.
“O haste thee, haste!” the lady cries, “Though tempests round us gather; I’ll meet the raging of the skies, But not an angry father.”
The boat has left a stormy land, A stormy sea before her,— When, oh! too strong for human hand, The tempest gathered o’er her.
And still they row’d amidst the roar Of waters fast prevailing; Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore, His wrath was changed to wailing.
For sore dismay’d, thro’ storm and shade, His child he did discover:— One lovely hand she stretch’d for aid, And one was round her lover.
“Come back! come back!” he cried in grief, “Across this stormy water: And I’ll forgive your Highland chief,— My daughter! O my daughter!”
Twas vain: the loud waves lash’d the shore, Return or aid preventing:— The waters wild went o’er his child, And he was left lamenting. Thomas Campbell
# Sentimental reciter/Saul

SAUL.
Thou whose spell can raise the dead, Bid the prophet’s form appear! Samuel, raise thy buried head— King, behold the phantom seer!
Earth yawn’d—he stood the centre of a cloud; Light changed its hue, retiring from his shroud; Death stood all glassy in his fixed eye— His hand was withered, and his veins were dry; His foot in bony whiteness glittered there, Shrunken, and sinewless, and ghastly bare. From lips that moved not, and unbreathing frame, Like cavern’d winds the hollow accents came; Saul saw and fell to earth as falls the oak— At once, and blasted by the thunder stroke.
Why is my sleep disquieted? Who is he that calls the dead? Is it thou, O king? Behold, Bloodless are these limbs and cold. Such are mine, and such shall be Thine to-morrow when with me— Ere the coming day is done, Such shalt thou be, such thy son. Fare-thee-well—but for a day; Then we mix our mouldering clay— Thou, thy race—lie pale and low, Pierced by shafts of many a bow; And the falchion by thy side, To thy heart thy hand shall guide— Crownless, breathless, headless fall, Son and sire—the house of Saul.
Byron.
# The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero)/Poetry/Volume 3/Hebrew Melodies/Saul

SAUL.
I.
Thou whose spell can raise the dead, Bid the Prophet's form appear. "Samuel, raise thy buried head! King, behold the phantom Seer!" Earth yawned; he stood the centre of a cloud: Light changed its hue, retiring from his shroud. Death stood all glassy in his fixéd eye; His hand was withered, and his veins were dry; His foot, in bony whiteness, glittered there, Shrunken and sinewless, and ghastly bare; From lips that moved not and unbreathing frame, Like caverned winds, the hollow accents came. Saul saw, and fell to earth, as falls the oak, At once, and blasted by the thunder-stroke.
II.
"Why is my sleep disquieted? Who is he that calls the dead? Is it thou, O King? Behold, Bloodless are these limbs, and cold: ​Such are mine; and such shall be Thine to-morrow, when with me: Ere the coming day is done, Such shalt thou be—such thy Son. Fare thee well, but for a day, Then we mix our mouldering clay. Thou—thy race, lie pale and low, Pierced by shafts of many a bow; And the falchion by thy side To thy heart thy hand shall guide: Crownless—breathless—headless fall, Son and Sire—the house of Saul!"
Seaham, Feb., 1815.
* ↑ He stands amidst an earthly cloud, And the mist mantled o'er his floating shroud.—[MS. erased.]
* ↑ At once and scorched beneath ——.—[MS. Copy (l, 2).]
* ↑ Bloodless are these bones ——.—[MS.]
* ↑ ["Since we have spoken of witches," said Lord Byron at Cephalonia, in 1823, "what think you of the witch of Endor? I have always thought this the finest and most finished witch-scene that ever was written or conceived; and you will be of my opinion, if you consider all the circumstances and the actors in the case, together with the gravity, simplicity, and dignity of the language."—Conversations on Religion with Lord Byron, by James Kennedy, M.D., London, 1830, p. 154.]
# Two Poems

* Search for titles containing or beginning with: "Two Poems."
* sister projects: Wikidata item.
This is a disambiguation page. It lists works that share the same title. If an article link referred you here, please consider editing it to point directly to the intended page.
* "Two Poems", poems by Douglas Ainslie
* "Two Poems" (1854), a pamphlet containing one poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning and one by Robert Browning
* "The Two Poems", a poem by Mary Louisa Chitwood
* "Two poems", a poem by Jaroslav Vrchlický
# The Kural or the Maxims of Tiruvalluvar/Chapter 1

INTRODUCTION
CHAPTER 1
IN PRAISE OF THE LORD
$^1$ A is the starting-point of the world of sound: even so is the Great Original the starting-point of all that exists.
$^2$ Of what avail is all thy learning if thou worship not the holy feet of Him of the perfect intelligence ?
$^3$ Whoso taketh refuge in the sacred feet of Him whose walk is among flowers, his days will be many upon the earth.
$^4$ Behold the men who cleave unto the feet of Him who is beyond preference and beyond aversion: the ills of life touch them not ever.
$^5$ Behold the men who sing earnestly the praises of the Lord: they will be freed from the pain-engendering fruits of action both good and evil.
​$^6$ Behold the men who follow the righteous ways of Him who hath burned away the desires of the five senses: their days will be many upon the earth.
$^7$ They alone escape from sorrow who take refuge in the feet of Him who hath no equal.
$^8$ The stormy seas of wealth and sense delights cannot be traversed except by those who cling to the feet of the Sage who is the Ocean of Righteousness.
$^9$ Worthless indeed like the organs of sense which do not perceive is the head that boweth not at the feet of Him who is endowed with the eight attributes.
$^{10}$ They alone cross the ocean of births and deaths who take refuge in the feet of the Lord: the others traverse it not.
# Beowulf (Harrison and Sharp)

* related portals: English literature, Medieval poetry.
* sister projects: Wikipedia article, quotes.
Source: James A. Harrison and Robert Sharp, eds. (1883) from Project Gutenberg (with corrections)
I. BĒOWULF:
AN ANGLO-SAXON POEM.
II. THE FIGHT AT FINNSBURH:
A FRAGMENT.
WITH TEXT AND GLOSSARY ON THE
BASIS OF M. HEYNE.
EDITED, CORRECTED, AND ENLARGED, BY
JAMES A. HARRISON, LL.D., LITT. D.,
PROFESSOR OF ENGLISH AND MODERN LANGUAGES, WASHINGTON AND LEE UNIVERSITY,
AND
ROBERT SHARP (PH.D. LIPS.), PROFESSOR OF GREEK AND ENGLISH, TULANE UNIVERSITY OF LOUISIANA.
FOURTH EDITION. REVISED, WITH NOTES.
GINN & COMPANY BOSTON-NEW YORK-CHICAGO-LONDON
Entered according to Act of Congress in the year 1883, by JAMES ALBERT HARRISON AND ROBERT SHARP in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.
DEDICATED
TO
PROFESSOR F. A. MARCH, OF LAFAYETTE COLLEGE, PA.,
AND
FREDERICK J. FURNIVALL, ESQ. FOUNDER OF THE "NEW SHAKSPERE SOCIETY," THE "CHAUCER SOCIETY," ETC., ETC.

## Appendix

* /The Fight at Finnsburh
* /List of Names
* /Notes
* /Glossary
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# Aloway Kirk, or, Tam o' Shanter (1817)/Man was Made to Mourn

Man was made to Mourn.
A DIRGE.
FINIS.
# Poems, Sacred and Moral/To My Son, on the Destruction of Needwood Forest

ΤΟ
MY SON,
ON THE
DESTRUCTION OF NEEDWOOD FOREST.
Written in May, 1803.
# Sweet Hellen of the Dee/Robin Shure in Haerst

ROBIN SHURE IN HAERST.
FINIS,
Falkirk—T. Johnston, Printer.
# The Book of Scottish Song/Robin shure in hairst

Robin shure in hairst.
[This is the name of an old song and tune. The old words, however, are very coarse, and Burns altered them as follows for Johnson's Museum, applying them to himself in the character of a poet. The tune is sometimes erroneously called "Bobbing John."]
Robin shure in hairst; I shure wi' him: Fient a heuk had I, Yet I stack by him. I gaed up to Dunse, To warp a wab o' plaidin'; At his daddie's yet, Wha met me but Robin?
Wasna Robin bauld, Though he was a cottar, Played me sic a trick, And me the eller's doohter!
Robin promised me A' my winter's vittle; Fient haet he had but three Guse feathers and a whittle!
# Braes of Birniebouzle

* "Birniebouzle", in Three excellent and at present very fashionable songs (n.d.), a chapbook printed in Peterhead
* "Braes of Birniebouzle", in Braes of Birniebouzle (1820), a chapbook printed in Edinburgh
* "Braes o' Birniebouzle", in Braes o' Birniebouzle (1823), a chapbook printed in Edinburgh
* "Birniebouzle", in The Book of Scottish Song (1843), edited by Alexander Whitelaw
# Lilies of the Valley (1825, Stirling)

Lilies of the Valley;
To which are added,
This is no my Plaid.
Up in the Morning.
Flora's Lament for Charly.
JOHNNY BLUSTER DWALT ON CLYDE.
STIRLING. Printed by W. Macnie
1825.
* Lilies of the Valley
* This is No My Plaid
* Up in the Morning
* Flora's Lament for Charly
* Johnny Bluster Dwalt on Clyde
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# Lilies of the Valley (1825, Stirling)/Lilies of the Valley

LILIES OF THE VALLEY.
# Battle of Sheriff Muir/Lilies of the Valley

LILIES OF THE VALLEY.
O'er barren hills and flowery dales, O'er seas and distant shores, ​With merry songs and jocund tales, I've pass'd some pleasant hours Tho' wandering thus, I ne'er could find A girl like blithesome Sally Who picks and culls, and cries aloud, "Sweet lilies of the valley."
From whistling o'er the harrowed turf, From nestling of each tree, I chose a soldier's life to wed, So social, gay, and free; Yet tho' the lasses love me well, And often try to rally, None pleases me like her who cries, "Sweet lilies of the valley."
I'm now return'd, of late discharged, And free from warlike toil; From fighting in my country's cause, To plough my native soil ; I care not which, with either pleased, So possess my Sally, That little merry symph who cries, "Sweet lilies of the valley."
# The Farmer/Lilies of the Valley

LILIES OF THE VALLEY
O’er barren hills and flowery dales, O'er seas and distant shores, With merry songs and jocund tales, I’ve pas'd some pleasant hours, Thi’ waudering thus I ne'er could find A girl like b’ythesome Sally; ​Who picks and culls and cries aloud. “Sweet lilies of the valley.“
From whistling o'er the harrowed turf, From nestling of each tree, I chose a soldier's life to wed, So social gay, and free; Yet tho the lasses love me well. And often try to rally. None, pleases me like her who cries, “Sweet lilies of the valley.‘
I'm now returned of late discharged To see my native soil; From fighting in my country's cause, To plough my country's soil: I care not which with either pleased, So I possess my Sally That little merry nymph, who cries, “Sweet lilies of the valley“
# The Lover's Songster/Lilies of the Valley

Lilies of the Valley.
O'er barren hills and flowery dales,
O'er seas and distant shores,
With merry songs and jocund tales,
I've pass'd some pleasant hours:
Though wand'ring thus, I ne’er could find
A girl like blithesome Sally;
Who picks, and culls, and cries aloud,
"Sweet Lilies of the Valley."
From whistling o'er the harrow'd turf,
From nestling of each tree,
I chose a soldier's life to wed,
So social, gay, and free:
Yet tho' the lasses love me well,
And often try to rally,
None pleases me like her who cries,
"Sweet Lilies of the Valley."
I'm now return’d, of late discharg'd,
To see my native soil;
From fighting in my country's cause,
To plough my country's soil;
I care not which, with either pleas'd,
So I possess my Sally,
That little merry nymph, who cries,
"Sweet Lilies of the Valley."
# The Farmer

The Farmer;
To which are added,
Lilies of the Valley.
Young Allan.
Last may a braw wooer.
The careful Wife.
STIRLING.
Printed by W. Macnie,
1825.
* The Farmer
* Lilies of the Valley
* Young Allan
* Last May a Braw Wooer
* The Careful Wife
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# The Farmer/The Farmer

THE FARMER
Come each jolly fellow that loves to be mellow, Attend unto me and sit easy One jorum in quiet my boys we will try it, Dull thinking will make a man crazy; For here I am king, let us drink, laugh and sing, Let no man appear as a stranger; But show me the art that refuses his glass, And I'll order him hay in a manger.
By plowing and sowing, by reaping and mowing. Dame nature supplies us with plenty; I’ve a cellar well stor'd and a plentiful board, And my garden affords every dainty I have all things in season, both woodcock and pheasant. I am here as justice of Quorum; In my cabin's far end I've a bed for a friend, With a clean fire side and a jorum.
Were it not for my seeding, you’d get but poor feeding Yon would surely be all starv’d without me; ​I am always content when I'va paid my rent And happy whea friends are about me; Draw close to the table my boys while your able, Let me hear no words of complaining For the jingling of glass sno music surpasses, I love to see bottles a draining.
Let the mighty and great roll in splendour and state, I envy them not I declare it; I’ll eat my own lamb my own chickens and ham, And I'll shear my own sheep and I'll wear it. I've lawns and I’ve bowers, I've fruit and I've flowers, The lark is my daily alarmer; So my jolly boys now, that follow the plough, Drink Long Life and Success to' the Farmer.