OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# New song of old sayings/A New Song of Old Sayings

A NEW SONG of OLD SAYINGS.
Bonaparte, the bully, reſolves to come over, With flat bottom'd wherries from Calais to Dover, No perils to him in the billows are found, For if born to be hang'd he can never be drown'd.
From a Corſican dung-hill this fungus did ſpring, He was ſoon made a Captain, and would be a king: But the higher he riſes, the more he does evil——— For a Beggar on horſe-back will ride to the Devil.
To ſeize all that we have, and then clap us in jail, To devour all cur victuals, and drink all our ale, And to grind us to duſt, is this Corſican's will,——— For they fay all is griſt that comes to his mill.
To ſtay quiet as home the firſt Conful can't, bear, Or mayhap he would have other fiſh to fry there: So as fiſh of that fort does not ſuit his deſire, He leaps out of the frying pan into the fire.
He builds barges & cock boats, & craft without end, And numbers the hosts which to England he'll ſend; But in ſpite of his craft, and in ſpite of his boaſts, He ſtill reckons, I think, without one of his hoſts.
He rides upon France, and he tramples on Spain, And holds Holland and Italy tight in a chain; Theſe he hazards for more, tho I can't underſtand That one bird in the buſh is with four in the hand.
He truſts that his luck will all danger expel, But the pitcher is broke that goes oft to the well: And when our brave ſoldiers this bully ſurround, Tho' he's thought penny-wiſe, he'll look fooliſh in pound.
France can never forget that our fathers of yore, We'd to pepper and baſte her by ſea and on ſhore, And we'll ſpeedily prove to this Mock Alexander, What was ſauce for the gooſe, will be ſauce for the gander
​I have heard and have read in a great many books, Half the Frenchmen are Taylors, & t'other half Cooks; We've fine trimmings in ſtore for the Knights of the Cloth, And the Cooks that come here, will but ſpoil their own broths.
It is ſaid that the French are a numerous race, And perhaps it is true, for Ill weeds grow apace: But come when they will, and as many as dare, I ſuſpect they'll arrive the day after the fair.
To invade is more ſafely, theſe warriors boaſt, They'll wait till a ſtorm drive our fleet from their coaſt: That 'twill be an ill wind will be ſoon underſtood, For a wind that blows Frenchmen——blows nobody good.
They'd treat Britain worſe than they're treated Mynheer, But they'll find they have a wrong Sow by the Ear, Let them come then in ſwarms by the Corſican led, And I warrant we'll bit the right nuil on the head.
# New song of old sayings/Saw Ye My Wee Thing

SAW YE MY WEE THING.
O Saw ye my wee thing, ſaw ye my ain thing, Saw ye my true love down on yon lee?' Croſs'd the the meadow yeſtereen, at the glooming, Sought the the burnie where flow'rs the haw-tree?
"Her hair is lint-white! her ſkin is milk white! "Dark is the blue o' her faſt rolling e'e! "Red red her ripe lips, and ſweeter than roſes, "Whar cou'd my wee thing wander frae me?"
'I ſaw na your wee thing, I ſaw na your ain thing, 'Nor ſaw I your true love down on yon lee; 'But I met my bonny thing late in the glooming, 'Down by the burnie whar flow'rs the haw-tree.
'Her hair is lint-white, her ſkin it is milk white, 'Dark was the blue o' her faſt rolling e'e ! 'Red war her ripe lips, and ſweeter than roſes, 'Sweet war the kiſſes that ſhe gae to me!'
"It was na my wee thing, it was na my ain thing! "It was na my true love ye met by the tree ! "Proud is her leel heart, modell her nature, "She never loo'd ony till ance ſhe loo'd me.
​"Her name it is Mary, ſhe's frae Caſtle Cary, "Aft has the fat when a bairn on my 'nee! "Fair as your face is, war't fifty times fairer, "Young bragger! ſhe ne'er wad gie kiſſes to thee!"
'It was then your Mary, ſhe's frae Caſtle Cary, 'It was then your true love I met by the tree! 'Proud as her heart is, and modeſt her nature, 'Sweet war the kiſſes that ſhe gae to me!'
Sair gloom'd his dark brow, blood-red his cheeks grew, Wild flaſh'd the fire from his red rolling e'e; "Ye's rue fair this morning, your boats & your ſcorning, "Defend ye fauſe traitor, fu’ loudly ye lie!"
'Awa' wi' beguiling, cried the yoUth ſmiling;' Aff went the bonnet, the lint-white locks did flee, The belted plaid fa'ing, her white borom ſhawing, Fair ſtood the lov'd maid wi' the dark rolling e'e.
"Is it my wee thing! is it mine ain thing! "Is it my true love here that I ſee?" 'O Jamie forgi'e me, your heart's conſtant to me; 'I'll never mair wander, my true love frae thee!"
# New song of old sayings/A Touch of the Terrific

A TOUCH of the TERRIFIC:
IT is ſaid that a Cottager once paſt his life In the ſhade of a foreſt profound; And content might have been, had me not had a Wife Who kept up the clamours of conjugal ſtrife, Till death laid her low in the ground.
'Twas midnight! tho' loudly the tempeſt did rave, Neither rain, wind, nor lightning he fear'd; Every ſtorm from without he could eaſily brave, Since his Wife as he thought, was at peace in her grave, When, lo! at his ſide ſhe appear'd!
Her green ſaucer eyes, with terrific grimace, She on him moſt tremendouſly glanc'd; She hugg'd him cloſe round in a thrilling embrace, While her cold livid lips flabber'd over his face: She then round him maliciouſy danc'd.
Then ſilence thus broke—"How are you, my dear "Why are you thus fill'd with a fright? "As I thought you'd be dull in this ev'ning, ſo dress, "A viſit I've paid, and, your ſpirits to cheer, "Beſide you will ſit all the night."
​Now the trembled all over with terror and rage, And he tore off the hair from his head: (aſſuage; 'Nought,' ſaid he 'while you liv'd could your clamour 'But why muſt I for ever your d—'d tongue engage? 'Z——ds! why can't you reſt now you're dead?'
Thus teaz'd, thus he plung'd, hurry'd on by deſpair, In a ſtreamlet which willows o'erhung; And 'tis ſaid dreadful ſcoldings are heard in the air; For he's doom'd, for his crime, never ceaſing to hear The noiſe of the Termagant's tongue.
When hoots the ſcreech owl on the old cottage walls, When day's golden glories are fled, Still Knave! Thief! & Cuckold her Huſband ſhe calls; When, if the takes breath, he impatiently bawls, Z——ds! hy can't you reſt now you're dead!'
# New song of old sayings/Britons Only Conquer to Save

BRITONS ONLY CONQUER TO SAVE.
When in war, on the ocean we meet the prond foe, Tho' with ardour for corqueſt our boſoms they glow, Let us ſee on their veſſels Old England's Flag wave, They ſhall find Britiſh Sailors but conquer to ſave. They ſhall find British Sailors, etc.
And now their pale Enſigns we view from a-far, With three cheers they're welcom'd by each Britſh Tar, Whilſt the Genius of Britain ſtill bids us advance, And our guns hurl in thunder defiance to France. They ſhall find Britiſh Sailors, etc!
But mark our laſt broadſide, ſhe ſinks! down ſhe goes Quickly man all your boats, they no longer are foes, To ſnatch a brave fellow from a watery grave, Io worthy a Briton who conquers to ſave. They ſhall find Britiſh Sailors only conquer to ſave.
# New song of old sayings/Caledonia Look'd Down

CALEDONIA LOOK'D DOWN.
When the moon had retir'd with her laſt feeble beam, And midnight left lonely and ſtill; When nothing was heard but the roar of the ſtream And the howl of the Fox on the hill,
O'er Clutha's blue ſtream, from a dark thunder cloud; Afloat o'er the low ſweeping gale, Caledonia look'd down, and contemplating, view'd Her ſons, as they ſlept in the dale.
"Sleep on!" thus began the celeſtial dame, "And loll at your eaſe while you may, "For the blaſt which ſhall wither the flow'r of your fame, "To your ſhores has directed its way.
"The Prince of Ambition, the Agent of Fate, "Its decrees for a time ſhall fulfil: "For Kings he can conquer, and Kingdoms create, "And plant upon Thrones whom he will.
"The proud he can humble, the ſtrong he can ſhake; "And murmurings huſh with a frown; "And you, O my children (I grieve for your ſake) "Are doom'd to complete his renown.
"For his heart is the ſeat of unbounded deſire, "Which delights in the blood of the brave, "Nor can he get reſt, he proclaims in his ire, "Till triumplant he ride on your waves."
"Then he'll never get reft, for it ſhall not be ſo," Each heart in a tranſport reply'd, "Begone thou falſe viſion! thou ſeem'ſt not to know, "The race, that ſo oft have been tried——
"Tho' a blaſt our ſhores ha directed its way, "With the Agent of Fate in its womb, "Yet our fame ſhall not ſink in the ſhades of diſmay, "For its ſlow'r he ſhall never conſume.
​"Let Europe ſubmit to be tied to the ſtake, "And Kings to be rank'd as his Slaves, "Yet he firſt muſt our land a wilderneſs make, "Ere triumphant he ride on our waves."
The Goddeſs on hearing, exulting reply'd, As ſlowly ſhe ſtole from the view, "I was but in jeſt, for I know that if try'd "Your hearts will be found to be true."
# New song of old sayings/An Irish Drinking Song

AN IRISH DRINKING SONG,
OF the ancients its ſpeaking, my ſoul you'd be after, That they never got how come you lo, Would you ſeriouſly make the good folks die with laughter To be ſure their dog tricks we don't know: To be ſure their dog tricks we don't know. With your ſmalliliow nonſenſe, and all your queer bodderns Since whiſky's a liquor divine: To be ſure the old ancients as well as the moderns, Did not love a ſly ſup of good wine; Did not love a ſly ſup of good wine.
Apicius and Æſop, as authors aſſure us, Would ſwig 'till as drunk as a beaſt, Then what do you think that rogue Epicurus, Was not he a tight hand at a feaſt Was, etc. With your ſmalliliow, etc.
Alexander the Great at his banquets who drank hard, When he no more worlds could ſubdue, Shed tears to be ſure, but 'twas tears of the tankard, To refreſh him, and pray would not you, To, etc. With your ſmalliliow? etc.
Then that t'other old felow they call'd Ariſtotle, Such a devil of a tipler was he, That one night having taken ſo much of his bottle, The Teaf ſtaggard into the ſea. The Teaf, etc. With your ſmalliliow, etc.
​Then they made what they call'd of their wine a libation Which, as all authority quotes: They threw on the ground—muſha, what boderation, To be ſure twas not thrown down their throats, To be ſure was not thrown down their throats. With your ſmalliliow nonſenſe, and all your queer bod- Since Whiſky's a liquor divine: (drens To be ſure the old ancients as well as the moderns, Did not love a ſly ſup of good wine; Did not love a ſly ſup of good wine.
# Yellow-hair'd laddie

Dated from external evidence.
THE
Yellow-Hair’d Laddie
To which are added,
The Auld Yellow-Hair'd Laddie.
ROGER AND DOLLY.
SCOLD HIM I WILL.
SUSAN’S Complaint and Remedy.
THE CORK RUMP.
STILL HE'S THE MAN.
BEAUTY AND RIGOUR.
The RETURN from the CHACE.
Entered according to Order.
* The yellow-hair'd laddie
* The auld yellow-hair'd laddie
* Roger and Dolly
* Scold him I will
* Susan's complaint and remedy
* The cork rump
* Still he's the man
* Beauty and rigour
* The return from the chace
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
# Yellow-hair'd laddie/The auld yellow-hair'd laddie

The Auld Yellow-Hair’d LADDIE.
THE yellow hair'd laddie sat down on yon brae, Cries milk the ews, lassie, let nane of them gae; And ay she milked, and ay she sang, The yellow hair'd laddie shall be my goodman. And ay she milked, &c.
​The weather is cauld and my claithing is thin; The ews are new clipped, they winna bught in; They winna bught in though I shou'd die, O yellow-hair’d laddie, be kind to me;
They winna bught in, &c.
The goodwife cries butt the house, Jenny, come ben, The cheese is to mak, and the butter's to kirn, Though butter, and cheese, and a' shou'd sour, I'll crack and kiss wi’ my love ae ha'f hour; It's ae ha'f hour, and we’s e’en mak it three, For the yellow-hair'd laddie my husband shall be.
# Yellow-hair'd laddie/Roger and Dolly

Dated from external evidence.
ROGER AND DOLLY.
To its own proper Tune.
AS Dolly was milking of the cows, Young Roger came tripping it over the plain, And made unto her most delicate bows, And then he went tripping it back again.
My pretty sweet Roger, come back again, My pretty sweet Roger, come back again, For it is your company that I do lack,
Or else my poor heart will break in twain.
I winna come back, nor I canna come back; I wonot, I cannot; no, no, not I: And if 'tis my company that you do lack, You may lack it until the day you die.
Oh! do you not mind the curds and cream, And many a bottle of good March beer? When you was going along with your team? And then it was Dolly my own sweet dear. But I winna come back, nor I canna come back, &c.
# Yellow-hair'd laddie/Scold him I will

SCOLD HIM I WILL.
ON a fine summer morning when nature looks gay, When the birds full of songs and the lambs full of play; When the earth seems to answer and smiles from above, Then all things declare it a season for love.
My mother cries Nancy, you must go to the mill, If my corn be not ground, you may scold if you will: Give me freedom to use my tongue, spare me no doubt, For a woman, alas! can do nothing without.
The maid being ready, she bound on her way, Repeating the words she determin'd to say; And as she drew nigh the mill, behold she stood still, Bless my stars, then she cry'd, scold him rarely I will.
The miller that instant to the market was gone, And left all the charge of the mill to his son; And although I could scold as well as many can, I thought it a pity to scold the young man.
O Sir, what is the reason you've us'd me so ill? I must have my corn ground, I must and I will. But he answer'd the fair maid,the neglect's none of mine, There's no corn in the mill I'll grind sooner than thine.
There being none so ready to answer the fair. The miller is to work gone, I vow and declare; But hark how the birds sing to sweet and so shrill, I must have a kiss first, I must and I will.
The corn being ready, she bound on her way, But he whisper'd her something of moment to stay, And he offered to hand her all thro' the green meed. And said, that he lov'd her indeed and indeed.
# Yellow-hair'd laddie/Susan's complaint and remedy

Dated from external evidence.
SUSAN’S Complaint and Remedy.
AS down in the meadows I chanced to pass, O there I beheld a young beautiful lass, Her age, I am sure, it was scarcely fifteen, And she on her head wore a garland of green.
Her lips were like rubies, and as for her eyes, They sparkled like diamonds, or stars in the skies, And as for her voice it was charming and clear, And she sung a song for the loss of her dear.
Why does my love Willy prove false and unkind? Ah! why does he change like the wav'ring wind, From one that is loyal in ev'ry degree? Ah! why does he change to another from me?
Or does he take pleasure to torment me so? Or does he delight in my sad overthrow? Susanna will always prove true to her trust, ’Tis pity lov'd Willy shou'd prove so unjust.
In the meadows as we were a making of hay, There did we pass the soft minutes away; Then was I kiss'd, and sat down on his knee, No man in the world was so loving as he.
And as he went forth to harrow and plow, I milk'd him sweet sillybubs under my cow: O then I was kiss'd as I sat on his knee, No man in the world was so loving as he.
But now he has left me, and Fanny the fair, Employs all his wishes, his thoughts and his care; He kisses her lips as she sits on his knee, And says all the sweet things he once said to me.
​But if she believe him, the false-hearted swain, Will leave her, and then she with me may complain; For nought is more certain, believe silly Sue, Who once has been faithless can never be true.
She finish'd her song, and rose up to be gone, When over the meadow came jolly young John, Who told her that she was the joy of his life, And if she'd consent he wou'd make her his wife;
She cou'd not refuse him, so to church they went; Young Willy's forgot, and young Susan's content, Most men are like Willy, most women like Sue: If men will be false, why shou'd women be true?
# Yellow-hair'd laddie/The cork rump

THE CORK RUMP.
Tune———There was an old Woman at Cranston.
GIVE Betsy a bushel of horse hair and wool, of paste and pometum a pound;
Ten yards of gay ribbon to deck her sweet skull, and gauze to encompass it round.
Of all the gay colours the rainbow displays are these ribbons which hang from her head, And her flounces adapted to make the folks gaze, for around the whole work are they spread.
Her flaps fly behind for a yard at the least and her curls meet under the chin; And those curls are supported, to keep up the jest, with an hundred instead of one pin.
Her gown is tuck'd up to the hip on each side, Shoes too high for to walk or to jump, And to deck the sweet creature compleat for a bride, the Cork-cutter has made her a rump.
​Thus finished in taste, while on her I gaze, I think I could take her for life; But I fear to undress her, for out of her stays, I should find I had lost HALF my wife?
# Yellow-hair'd laddie/Still he's the man

STILL HE’S THE MAN.
To its own proper Tune.
WHAT woman cou'd do, I have try'd to be free, Yet do all I can, I find I love him, and though he flies me, Still, still he's the man. They tell me at once, he to twenty will swear: When vows are so sweet, who the falshood can fear? So when you have said all you can, Still,———still he's the man.
I caught him once making love to a maid, When to him I ran, He turn'd, and he kiss'd me, then who cou'd upbraid So civil a man? The next day I found to a third he was kind, I rated him soundly, he swore I was blind; So let me do what I can, Still,———still he's the man.
All the world bids me beware of his art: I do what I can: But he has taken such hold of my heart, I doubt he's the man! So sweet are his kisses, his looks are so kind, He may have his faults, but if none I can find, Who can do more than they can, He,———still is the man.
# Yellow-hair'd laddie/Beauty and rigour

BEAUTY AND RIGOUR.
THE nymph that undoes me is fair and unkind, No less than a wonder by nature designed; She's the grief of my heart, and the joy of my eye, And the cause of a flame that never can die. And the cause, &c.
Her mouth, from whence wit still obligingly flows, Has the beautiful blush, and the smell of the rose: Love and destiny both attend on her will, She wounds with a look, with a frown she can kill.
The desperate lover can hope no redress, Where Beauty and Rigour are both in excess; In Silvia they meet, so unhappy am I, Who sees her must love, who loves her must die.
# Yellow-hair'd laddie/The return from the chace

The RETURN from the CHACE.
THE sweet rosy morn peeps over the hills, With blushes adorning the meadows and fields; The merry, merry, merry horn calls, Come, come away, Awake from your slumbers and hail the new day. The merry, merry, &c.
The flag rouz'd before us, away seems to fly, And pants to the chorus of hounds in full cry, Then follow, follow, follow the musical chace, Where pleasure and vigorous health you embrace.
The day's sport when over makes blood circle right, And gives the brisk lover fresh charms for the night; Then let us now enjoy all we can when we may, Let love crown the night, as our sports crown the day.
FINIS.
# The Poetical Works of Leigh Hunt/Song of Fairies Robbing an Orchard

SONG OF FAIRIES ROBBING AN ORCHARD.
FROM SOME LATIN VERSES IN THE OLD ENGLISH DRAMA OF "AMYNTAS, OR THE IMPOSSIBLE DOWRY."
# The Poetical Works of Leigh Hunt/The Infant Hercules and the Serpents

TRANSLATIONS.
THE
INFANT HERCULES AND THE SERPENTS.
FROM THEOCRITUS.
Juno, jealous of the child which Jupiter has had by Alcmena, sends two dreadful serpents to devour the boy. The serpents come upon him while he and his half-brother Iphiclus, the son of Amphitryon, are sleeping together. Iphiclus, the child of the mortal father, is terrified: Hercules, the infant demi-god, seizes and destroys them, as if they were living playthings. His mother consults the prophet Tiresias on the occasion, and is told of her son's future renown.
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# The Poetical Works of Leigh Hunt/Greek Pretenders to Philosophy

GREEK PRETENDERS TO PHILOSOPHY DESCRIBED.
FROM THE ANTHOLOGY.
(The original is in similar compound words.)
# The Poetical Works of Leigh Hunt/Cupid Swallowed

CUPID SWALLOWED!
A PARAPHRASE FROM THE SAME.
# The Poetical Works of Leigh Hunt/Catullus's Return Home

CATULLUS'S RETURN HOME
TO THE PENINSULA OF SIRMIO.
# Dearest Helen/The Butcher’s Frolic

The Butcher's Frolic.
It is of an honest butcher, that lived in Leeds town, He was a clever youth, and his name it was Jack Brown, A taylor's wife went out one day some meat for to buy, What do you want goodwoman, what do you wish to buy.
I want a loin of mutton, if you don’t ask too dear, Come here, honest woman, and I’ll use you kind and fair, You are the cleverest woman that I have seen to-day, I’d have you come and view my meat before you go away.
She took the loin of mutton, and lik’d it very well, And said unto the Butcher, the price now to me tell? Fair dear, 'tis at your service, or any joint I have, If that you tell me where you live, your company I crave.
The place where I do live is near the blazing star, If you ask for the hand and sheers, you’ll surely find me there,
To-morrow night, most certainly, I'll come and visit thee; With all my heart, kind sir, you are welcome unto me.
She took the loin of mutton, refuse it she would not; Straight home then she did carry it, and boil'd it in the pot; When her husband he came home, she told him what she had; His heart it jumpt for joy, he was so very glad.
She said, my loving husband, how must this contrivance be? To-morrow night, most certainly, the Butcher comes to me, You must get under the bed, and take a sword with you, And if the butcher comes, swear you'll run him through.
I never handled sword, nor fought in all my life. Pray take the sword yourself, my lovely dear good wife; You must not be faint hearted, but fight with courage bold, For if we do win the day, we'll gain great store of gold.
The butcher he bethought himself he'd best provided be, For fear the taylor and his wife should play a trick on he; He took a brace of pistols, and put them on the bed, Which made the taylor quake for fear, and look like one quite dead.
What is this that stinks so, the butcher he did say, It is my husband's little dog that under the bed doth lye. If 'tis your husband’s little dog, I'll turn him out of the room, I beg you will be still, my dear, 'tis only a little poltroon.
The butcher he arose, and there he chanced to spy One of the taylor's legs, who under the bed did lie: If this be your husband’s little dog, I'll kill him out of spite— O spare my life, the taylor cried, and you may kiss my wife.
Now said the butcher, let you and I agree, That I may come whene'er I please, your loving wife to see, With all my heart, the taylor said, you are welcome to my wife, ⟨I⟩ never was so frightened before in all my life.
# The Butcher’s Frolic

* "The Butcher’s Frolic", in Dearest Helen (n.d.), a chapbook printed in Glasgow
* "The Butcher's Frolic with the Taylors Wife", in Six Excellent New Songs (n.d.), a chapbook printed in Edinburgh
# Six Excellent New Songs (Edinburgh)/The Butcher's Frolic with the Taylors Wife

The Butcher's Frolic with the Taylors Wife.
# Six Excellent New Songs (Edinburgh)/Every Man to His Humour

Every man to his Humour.
# Six Excellent New Songs (Edinburgh)/The Lass of the Brow of the Hill

The lass of the Brow of the Hill.