OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Cruel father, or, The loyal lover's downfal (1820)/The Bay of Biscay

THE BAY OF BISCAY.
Loud roar'd the dreadful thunder, The rain in deluge showers, The clouds were rent asunder, By lightning’s vivid powers; The night both drear and dark, Our poor devoted bark, Till next day, there she lay In the bay of Biscay O.
Now dash’d upon the billows, Her opning timbers creak; Each fears a watery pillow, None stops the dreadful leak: To cling to sllpp’ry shrouds Each breathless seaman crowds, As she lay till the day In the bay of Biscay O.
At length the wish'd-for morrow Broke thro’ the hazy sky; Absorb’d in silent sorrow, Each heav'd the tender sigh: ​The dismal wreck to view
Struck horror in the crew,
As she lay on the day In the bay of Biscay O.
Her yielding timbers sever, Her pitchy scams are rent,
When Heaven, all bounteous ever, Its ⟨boundless⟩ mercy sent:
A sail in sight appears,
We hail with three cheers;
Now we sail with the gale, From the bay of Biscay O.
FINIS.
# Cruel father, or, The loyal lover's downfal (1802)/The Royal George

THE ROYAL GEORGE
O The sad and dismal story, which proceeds from Spithead coast, The Royal George and all her glory, Here unfort'nately are lost.
​Thirteen hundred souls there perish'd! melancholy for to hear! Many fatherless and widows, mourn for their relations dear.
It was the twenty-ninth of August, that did prove the fatal day That good ship was there repairing, before they did set out for sea.
But a squal of wind arising, great's our cause for to lament. In three minutes, most surprising: ship and crew to bottom went.
Such a dismal scene of horror, never mortal eyes did see. This brave ship which was a terror, to the daring enemy.
She was the pride of all the navy, for her success and courage brave, Pity 'tis for the brave sailors, who have got a wat'ry grave!
Kempensfelt that brave commander, the youngest admiral we have. But ah! both he and his brave sailors, all have perish'd in the waves!
In battles he was still victorious, he did govern his fleet with skill; His actions were crown'd with success, his death with grief our hearts do fill.
​This most melancholy subject, from each eye must draw a tear! Such a dismal scene of horror, near to Spithead did appear.
The beach and houses at the port were all filled with the dead In each look nothing but dejection, each human heart for them did bleed.
Children weeping for their parents; widows for their husbands dear; The dismal cries of those were sinking, did pierce the heart of all did hear.
But none could give the least assistance, to this brave and goodly ship, Now in the waves without resistance, she lies fourteen fathom deep.
What a loss is it to Britain, in so critical a time, For to lose such brave commanders, and gallant sailors in their prime:
Whose stout and undaunted courage, French and Spaniards both have felt
Our enemies were made to tremble, at the name of Kempenfelt.
May Heaven support our British Heroes, and from danger keep them free. And send us one into his station, as valiant and as good as he.
​Heaven prefers our Royal Sov'reign, long may he the sceptre sway, His fleets and armies be victorious, over every enemy.
# Cruel father, or, The loyal lover's downfal (1802)/The milking pail

THE MILKING PAIL.
O'ER half the sky the blushing dawn, her purple vest had spread When Sally cross'd the dewy lawn, with milk-pail on her head.
Her brow as month of April sweet, her cheeks were rosy red Her dress was white and lovely neat, as milk-pail on her head.
While nymphs who breath the city air, their mornings waste in bed; Young Sally sings as sky-lark clear, with milk-pail on her head.
Her sloe-black eyes their lustre take, from virtue only bred; Her bosom ne'er felt conscious ache, since milk pail grac'd her head.
For courtly dames I ne'er shall fret, but ah! would Sally wed, I'd bless the spot where first we met with milk-pail on her head.
# Cruel father, or, The loyal lover's downfal (1802)/My stubborn heart

MY STUBBORN HEART.
TEN years like Troy, my stubborn heart, withstood the assault of fond desire: But now, alas! I feel the smart, poor I, like Troy, am set on fire.
With care we may a pile secure, and from all common sparks defend: But, Oh! who can a house secure, when the celestial flames descend.
Thus was I safe, till from your eyes destructive fire are brightly given; Ah! who can shun the warm surprise, when lo! the light'ning comes from heaven.
Glasgow, Printed by J. & M. Robertson, Saltmarket, 1802.
# Cruel father, or, The loyal lover's downfal (1802)/Short repose

SHORT REPOSE.
BLow on soft winds, descend soft rain, to soothe my tender woes; Your solemn music lulls my pain, and gives me short repose.
The fan that makes my nature gay, disturbs my wearied eyes, And in dark shades I waste the day, where echo sleeping lies.
Then pity, me, O gentle love! and come to my relief, Let innocence and virtue prove, a sacrifice to grief
# Blow on soft winds, descend soft rain

* "Short repose", in Cruel Father, or, The Loyal Lover's Downfal (1802), a chapbook printed in Glasgow
* "A New Song", in Lord Thomas and Fair Annet (n.d.), a chapbook without printing information
# Lord Thomas and Fair Annet (1790)

LORD THOMAS
A N D
FAIR ANNET.
W I T H
What’s that to You.
A N D
A NEW SONG.
* Lord Thomas and Fair Annet
* What's That to You
* A New Song
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
# Lord Thomas and Fair Annet (1790)/A New Song

A NEW SONG
BLow on ye winds, descend soft rain, to soothe my tender woes; Your solemn music lulls my pain, and gives me short repose.
The sun that makes all nature gay, disturbs my my weary’d eyes, And in dark shades I wade the day, where Echo sleeping lies.
Then pity me, O gentle love! and come to my relief, Lest innocence and virtue prove, a sacrifice to grief.
F I N I S
# My Jeanie and I

* "What's That to You", in Lord Thomas and Fair Annet (n.d.), a chapbook with no printing information
* "My Jeanie and I", in The Book of Scottish Song (1843), edited by Alexander Whitelaw
# The Book of Scottish Song/My Jeanie and I

My Jeanie and I.
[The original of this song was written by Tom D'Urfey, and published in 1702. Ramsay altered and pruned it for his Miscellany, and since his day it has been pruned still farther. It is sung to different tunes.]
My Jeanie and I have toil'd The live-lang summer's day, Till we were almost spoil'd At making of the hay. Her kurchy was o' Holland clear, Tied to her bonnie brow; I whisper'd something in her ear,— But what is that to you?
Her stockings were o' kersey green, And tight as ony silk; O, sic a leg was never seen! Her skin was white as milk; Her hair was black as ane could wish; And sweet, sweet was her mou'! Ah! Jeanie dantily can kiss— But what is that to you?
The rose and lily baith combine To make my Jeanie fair: There is nae benison like mine; I have amaist nae care. But when another swain, my fair, Shall say you're fair to view; Let Jeanie whisiier in his ear— Pray what is that to you?
# Lord Thomas and Fair Annet (1790)/What's That to You

What's that to you.
MY Jeany and I have toil’d, the live lang summer day, Till we amaist were spoll’d, at making of the hay; Her kurchy was of Holland clear, ty’d on her bonny brow, ​I whisper'd something in her ear; But what’s that to you? Her stockings were of Kersey green, as ⟨tight⟩ as ony silk; O sic a leg was never seen, her skin was white ⟨as⟩ milk; Her hair was black as ane cou’d wish, and sweet, was her mou’, O! Jeany dain(illegible text)ie can ⟨kiss⟩; But what’s that to you? The rose a lilly ⟨baith⟩ combine, to make my Jeany fair, There is nae bennison like mine, I have amaist nae care, Only I fear my my Jenny’s face may caufe mae men to rue, And that may gar me say, Alas! But what’s that to you? Conceal thy beauties, if thou can, hide that sweet face of thine, That I may only be the man, enjoys these looks divine. O do not prostitute, my dear, Wonders to common view. And I with frightful heart shall swear, For ever to be true. King Solomon had wives enew ​and mony a concubine; But I enjoy a bliss mair true, his joys were short of mine; And Jeany’s happier than they. She seldom wants her due, All debts of love to her I pay, and what’s that to yon?
# Tullochgorum (1823)

TULLOCHGORUM,
To which is added,
THE HIGHLAND
PLAID,
HALLOW FAIR.
GLASGOW: Published and Sold, Wholesale and Retail,
by R. Hutchison, Bookseller,
19. Saltmarket.
1823.
* Tullochgorum
* The Highland Plaid
* Hallow Fair
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
# Tullochgorum (1823)/Tullochgorum

TULLOCHGORUM.
Come gie's a sang the lady cried, And lay your disputes all aside, What nonsense is’t for folks to chide For what's been done before them. Let whig and tory all agree, Whig and tory, whig and tory, Let whig and tory all agree To drop their whigmegmorum. Let whig and tory all agree To spend the night with mirth and glee, And cheerfu' sing alang with me The reel of Tullochgorum.
Tullochgorum's my delight, It gars us a' in ane unite, And onie sumph that keeps up spite, In conscience I abhor him: Blithe and merry we's be a', Blithe and merry, blithe and merry, Blithe and merry we's be a', To mak a cheerfu’ quorum; Blithe and merry we's be a' As lang as we hae breath to draw, And dance till we be like to fa', The reel of Tullochgorum.
​There needs na be sae great a phrase With bringing dull Italian lays; I wadna gie our ain Strathspies For half a hunder score o'm. They're dowff and dowie at the best, Dowff and dowie, dowff and dowie, They're dowff and dowie at the best, With a' their variorum: They're dowff and dowie at the best, Their allegros, and a' the rest, They canna please a Highland taste, Compared with Tullochgorum.
Let wardly minds themselves oppress, With fear of want and double cess, And silly sauls themselves distress, With keeping up decorum. Shall we sae sour and sulky sit, Sour and sulky, sour and sulky, Shall we sae sour and sulky sit, Like auld Philosphorum? Shall we sae sour and sulky sit, With neither sense, nor mirth, nor wit, And canna rise to shake a fit To the reel of Tullochgorum.
May choicest blessings still attend Each honest-hearted open friend, And calm and quiet be his end, Be a' that's gude before him!
​May peace and plenty be his lot, Peace and plenty, peace and plenty, May peace and plenty be his lot, And dainties a great store o’m! May peace and plenty be his lot, Unstained by any vicious blot! And may he never want a groat That's fond of Tullochgorum.
But for the discontented fool, Who wants to be oppression's tool May envy gnaw his rotten soul, And blackest firends devour him! May dool and sorrow be his chance, Dool and sorrow, dool and sorrow, May dool and sorrow be his chance, And honest souls abhor him: May dool and sorrow be his chance, And a’ the ills that come frae France, Whae'er he be that winna dance The reel of Tullochgorum,
# Tullochgorum (1823)/The Highland Plaid

THE HIGHLAND PLAID.
Lowland lassie will ye go, Whare the hills are clad wi' snow, Whare beneath the icy steep, The hardy shepherd tends his sheep; Ill nor wae shall thee betide, When row'd within my Highland plaid.
​Soon the voice of cheary spring Will gar a’ our plantins ring, Soon our bonny heather braes, Will put on their summer claes; On the mountain's sunny side We’ll lean us on my Highland plaid.
When the simmer spreads the flow'rs Basks the glens in leafy bow'rs, Then we'll seek the caller shade, Lean us on the primrose bed; While the burning hours preside, I'll screen thee wi' my Highland plaid.
Then we'll leave the sheep and goat, I will launch the bonny boat, Skim the loch in canty glee, Rest the oars to pleasure thee; When chilly breezes sweep the tide, I'll hap thee wi' my Highland plaid.
Lowland lads may dress mair fine, Woo in words mair saft then mine, Lowland lads hae mair of art, A’ my boast’s an honest heart; Whilk shall ever be my pride, O row thee in my Highland plaid.
“ Bonny lad ye've been sae leal, “ My heart would break at our farewell,
​" Lang your love has made me fain, " Take me-take me for your ain!" Cross the firth, away they glide, Young Donald and his Lowland bride.
# Tweedside (1823)/Hallow Fair

HALLOW FAIR.
Tune—Fy let us a' to the Bridal.
There's fouth of braw Jockes and Jennies, Comes weel buskit into the fair, With ribbons on their cockernonies, And fouth of fine flour in their hair. O Maggie she was sae weel busked, That Willie was tied to his bride; The pony was ne'er better whisked With a cudgel that hung frae his side,
But Maggie was wondrous jealous, To see Willie busked sae braw; And Sawney he sat in the ale-house, And hard at the liqour did ca', There was Georgie that weel lo'ed his lassie, He took the pint stoup in his arms, And hugged it, and said, Troth they're saucy, That lo'es na a gude father's bairn.
​There was Watrie, the muirland laddie, Was mounted upon a grey cowte, With sword by his side, like a caddie, To drive in the sheep and the nowte. His doublet sae weel it did fit him, It scarcely came down to mid-thigh, With hair pouthered, hat, and a feather, And housing at courpon and tee.
But Bruckie played boo to Bawsie, And aff scoured the cowte like the win’; Poor Wattie he fell on the causey, And brised a’ the banes in his skin. His pistols fell out of the hulsters, And were a’ bedaubed with dirt: The folk they came round him in clusters, Some leugh, and cried, Lad, was ye hurt?
The cowte wad let naebody steer him, He was aye sae wanton and skeigh; The packmens stands he o’erturned them, And gart a’ the fair stand abeigh. With sneering behind and before him; For sic is the mettle of brutes; Poor Wattie, and wae’s me for him, Was fain to gang hame in his boots,
Now it was late in the ev’ning, And bughting time was drawing near; ​The lasses had stenched their greening
With fouth of braw apples and beer.
There was Lillie, and Tibbie, and Sibbie, And Ceicy on the spindle could spin,
Stood glowring at signs and glass winwocks, But deil a lad bade them come in.
Gude guide's! saw ye ever the like o't? See yonder's a bonny black swan; It glowrs as it fain wad be at us, What's yon that it hauds in its han'! Awa, daft gowk, cries Wattie, They're a' but a rickle of sticks; See there is Bill, Jock, and auld Hauckie, And yonder's Mess John and Auld Nick.
Quo' Maggie, Come buy us our fairing, To Wattie, wha sleely could tell, I think thou'rt the flower on the clachan, In troth now I'se gie you mysel'. But wha wad e'er thought it of him, That e'er he had rippled the lint? Sae proud was he of his Maggie, Though she did baith scailie and squint.
# The Book of Scottish Song/Hallow-fair

Hallow-fair.
["Hallow-fair," to the tune of "Fy, let us a' to the bridal," was written by the unfortunate Robert Fergusson, the distinguished precursor of Burns, and first printed in David Herd's collection of 1776. Hallow-fair is a fair held annually at Edinburgh.]
There's fouth o' braw Jockies and Jennies Comes weel-buskit into the fair, With ribbons on their cockernonies, And fouth o' fine flour on their hair. Maggie she was sae weel buskit, That Willie was tied to his bride; The pownie was ne'er better whisket Wi' cudgel that hang frae his side.
But Maggie was wond'rous jealous, To see Willie buskit sae braw; And Sandy he sat in the alehouse, And hard at the liquor did ca'. There was Geordie, that weel looed his lassie, He took the pint-stoup in his arms, And hugged it, and said, Trouth they're saucie, That loes na a guid-father's bairn.
There was Wattle, the muirland laddie, That rides on the bonnie grey cowt, With sword by his side like a cadie To drive in the sheep and the nowt. His doublet sae weel it did fit him, It scarcely cam' down to mid-thie, With hair pouthered, hat, and a feather, And housing at curpen and tee.
But Bruckie played boo to Bassie, And aff scoured the cout like the wind: Puir Wattie he fell on the caussey, And birzed a' the banes in his skin. His pistols fell out o' the hulsters, And were a' bedaubed wi' dirt, The folk they cam' round him in clusters; Some leuch, and cried, Lad, was ye hurt? ​But cout wad let naebody steer him, He aye was sae wanton and skeigh; The packmen's stands he overturned them, And garred a' the Jocks stand abeigh; Wi' sneerin' behind and before him, For sic is the mettle o' brutes, Puir Wattie, and wae's me for him. Was fain to gang hame in his boots.
Now it was late in the e'ening, And boughting-time was drawing near; The lasses had stanched their greening Wi' fouth o braw apples and beer. There was Lillie, and Tibbie, and Sibbie, And Ceicy on the spindle could spin, Stood glowrin' at signs and glass winnocks, But deil a ane bade them come in.
Gude guide us! saw ye e'er the like o't? See, yonder's a bonnie black swan; It glow'rs as it wad fain be at us; What's yon that it hauds in its hand? Awa', daft gowk, cries Wattie, They're a' but a ruckle o' sticks; See, there is Bill-Jock and auld Hawkie, And yonder's Mess John and auld Nick.
Quoth Maggie, Come buy us our fairin'; And Wattie richt sleely could tell, I think thou'rt the flower o' the clachan,— In trowth, now, I'se gi'e thee mysell. But wha wad ha' e'er thocht it o' him, That e'er he had rippled the lint? Sae proud was he o' his Maggie, Though she was baith scaulie and squint.
# Executive Jet Aviation, Inc. v. City of Cleveland

Supreme Court of the United States
409 U.S. 249
Executive Jet Aviation, Inc., et al. v. City of Cleveland et al.
Certiorari to the United States Court of Appeals for the Sixth Circuit
No. 71-678. Argued: November 15, 1972 --- Decided: December 18, 1972
Petitioners, invoking federal admiralty jurisdiction under 28 U.S.C. § 1333 (1), brought suit for damages resulting from the crash-landing and sinking in the navigable waters of Lake Erie of their jet aircraft shortly after takeoff from a Cleveland airport. The District Court dismissed the complaint for lack of admiralty jurisdiction on the grounds that the alleged tort had neither a maritime locality nor a maritime nexus. The Court of Appeals affirmed on the first ground.
Held: Neither the fact that an aircraft goes down on navigable waters nor that the negligence "occurs" while the aircraft is flying over such waters is sufficient to confer federal admiralty jurisdiction over aviation tort claims, and in the absence of legislation to the contrary such jurisdiction exists with respect to those claims only when there is a significant relationship to traditional maritime activity. Therefore, federal admiralty jurisdiction does not extend to aviation tort claims arising from flights like the one involved here between points within the continental United States. Pp. 253-274.
448 F.2d 151, affirmed.
STEWART, J., delivered the opinion for a unanimous Court.
Phillip D. Bostwick argued the cause and filed briefs for petitioners.
Solicitor General Griswold argued the cause for respondent Dicken. With him on the brief were Assistant Attorney General Wood, Allan A. Tuttle, and Walter H. Fleischer. Edward D. Crocker filed a brief for respondents City of Cleveland et al.
# The Hallow fair (3)/The hallow fair

THE HALLOW FAIR.
There's fouth o' braw Jockies and Jennies, Comes weel buskit into the fair, Wi' ribbons on their cockernonies, And fouth o' fine flour in their hair. O Maggie was ne'er sae weel busked, Syne Willie was tied to his bride; The poney was ne'er better whisked, Wi' a cudgel that hang frae his side.
But Maggie was wondrous jealous, To see Willie busked sae braw: And Sawney he sat in the ale-house, And hard at the liquor did ca'. There was Geordie, that weel-lo'ed his lassie, He took the pint stoup in his arms, And hugg'd it, and said, "Troth they're saucie That lo'es na a gude father's bairn.
There was Wattie, the muirland laddie, Was mounted upon a grey cowte, Wi' sword by his side, like a caddie, To drive in the sheep and the nowte. His doublet sae weel it did fit him, It scarcely came down to mid-thigh, Wi' hair pouther'd, hat, and a feather, And housing at courpon and tee.
​But Bruckie play'd boo to Bawsie, And aff scour'd the cowte like the win'; Poor Wattie he fell on the causeway, And birs'd a' the banes in his skin. His pistols fell out o' the bulsters, And were a' bedaubed wi' dirt: The folk they came round him in clusters, Some leugh, and cri'd, lad, was you hurt?
The cowte wad let naebody steer him, He was aye sae wanton and skeigh; The packmen's stands he o'erturn'd them, And gart a' the fair stand abeigh. Wi' sneering behind and before him, For sic is the metal of brutes, Poor Wattie, and wae's me for him, Was fain to gang hame in his boots.
Now it was late in the ev'ing, And bughting time was drawing near, The lassies had stenched their greening, Wi' fouth o' braw apples and beer. There was Lillie, and Tibbie, and Sibbie, And Ceicie on the spindle could spin, Stood glowring at signs and glass winnocks, But de'il a lad bade them come in.
Gude guides! saw ye ever the like o't? See yonder's a bonnie black swan; It glowrs as it wad fain be at us; What's yon tbat it hauds in its han'? Awa, daft gowk, cries Wattie, They're a' but a rickle o sticks; See there is Bill, Jock, and Auld Hackie, And yonder's Mess John and Auld Nick.
​Quo' Maggie, come buy us our fairing, To Wattie, wha sleely could tell, I think thou'rt the flow'r o' the Clachan, In troth, now I'se gie you mysel'! But wha wad e'er thought it o' him, That e'er had rippled the lint? Sae proud was he o' his Maggie, Though she did baith scailie and squint.
# The Hallow fair (3)/The roses blaw

THE ROSES BLAW.
O! ha'e you seen the roses blaw, The heather bloom, the broom an' a', The lily spring as white as snaw, Wi' a' their native splendour: ​Yet Mary's sweeter on the green, As fresh and fair as Flora queen; Mair stately than the branching bean, And like the ivy, slender.
In nature, like a summer day, Transcendant as a sunny ray; Her shape and air is frank and gay, Wi' a' that's sweet and tender. While lav'rocks sing their cheerful lays, And shepherds brush the dewy braes, To meet wi' Mary's bonny face, Amang the shades I wander.
My captive breast, by fancy led, Adores the sweet, the lovely maid, Wi' ilka smile and charm array'd, To make a heart surrender. I love her mair than bees do flowers, Or birks the spreading leafy bowers; Her presence yields me what the showers, To hills and vallies render.
Could I obtain my charmer's love, Mair stable than a rock I'd prove; Wi' a' the meekness of a dove, To ilka pleasure haud her. If she wad like a shepberd lad, I'd change my cane for crook and plaid; Upon the hill tune up the reed, And wi' a sang commend her.
For her I'd live a life remote, Wi' her I'd love a rustic cot; There bliss kind fortune for my lot, And ilka comfort lend her. ​Till death seals up my wearied e'e, In troubled dreams her form I'll see; Till she consents to live wi' me, In lonesome shades I'll wander.
# The Hallow fair (3)/Sandy and Jenny

SANDY AND JENNY.
Come, come, bonny lassie, cry'd Sandy, awa, While mither's a spinning, and father's afar, The folk are at work and the bairns are at play, And we will be married, dear Jenny, to-day. Stay, stay, bonny laddie, I answer'd with speed, I winna, I munna go with you, indeed: Besides, should I do so, what would the folks say, O we canna marry, dear Sandy, to-day.
List, list, cried he, lassie, and mind what you do, Both Peggy and Patty I give up for you, Besides, a full twelvemonth we've trifled away, And one or the other I ll marry to-day. Fie, fie, bonny laddie, replied I again, When Peggy you kiss'd t'other day on the plain, Besides, a new ribbon does Patty display; So we canna marry dear Sandy to-day.
Then, then, a good bye, bonny lassie, says he, For Peggy and Patty are waiting for me, The kirk is hard by, and the bells cast away, And Peggy or Patty I'll marry to-day. Stop, stop, bonny laddie, says I with a smile, For know, I was joking indeed all the while: Let Peggy go spin, and send Patty away, And we will be married, dear Sandy, to-day.
FINIS.