OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 2/I'll never forget that, ma'am!

I’LL NEVER FORGET THAT, MA’AM!
They say the men are faithless all,
And never will prove thrue, dear,
But of all in all, both great and small, I’ll never forget you, dear.
For ’tis you that took the hoighth o’ care
To keep my memory thrue, dear;
My memory’s not very good—but I’ll never forget you, dear. O, Kitty, dear, you need not fear That I will e’er forget you, I remember all your tindherness
From the hour that first I met you.
’Twas at the fair your coaxin’ air
First made me be your suithor,
Where I spent my wealth to dhrink your health,
And toss’d the costly pewther;
A lock o’ your hair you promised me—
With joy my heart was big, ma’am!
But in the bottom o’ the quart
I found the fiddler’s wig, ma’am!
O, indeed, Miss Kit, the dickins a bit
You’ll wheedle me now with your chat, ma’am:
My memory’s not very good—
But I’ll never forget that, ma’am.
When you bid me step up to the house,
To spake to your mother and father,
And said, of all the boys you knew
’Twas myself that you would rather;
“Won’t you take a sate,” says you, “my dear?” With a most seducin’ air, ma’am:
But, oh! what a thunderin’ lump of a pin
You stuck in the sate of the chair, ma’am!
Indeed, Miss Kit, the dickins a bit
You’ll wheedle me now with your chat, ma’am,
My memory’s not very good—
But I’ll never forget that, ma’am.
When I said ’twas you could raise the flame,
My love, you did but mock it,
For didn’t you put a coal o’ fire
Into my new coat pocket?
And when I blazed, ’twas you did about
With laughter, to be sure, ma’am,
“O,” says you, “my dear, I’ll put you out,”
But, faix, ’twas out o’ the door, ma’am.
Indeed, Miss Kit, the dickins a bit
You’ll wheedle me now with your chat, ma’am.
My memory’s not very good—
But I’ll never forget that, ma’am.
Then didn’t I see black Darby Keogh
To the little back window pass, ma’am?
His ugly face he there did squeeze
Till he flatten’d his nose on the glass, ma’am. Then the sash was riz—I heer’d it squeal—
There was nothing then between you:
’Faith, I know how he flatten’d his nose after that!
Tho’ you thought there was nobody seen you.
O, indeed, Miss Kit, the dickins a bit
You’ll wheedle me now with your chat, ma’am:
My memory’s not very good,—but I’ll never forget that, ma’am!
Samuel Lover.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 3/The game of life

THE GAME OF LIFE.
With eager hand Hope deftly weaves
The mantles that our pride would don, While busy-finger’d Care unreaves
The garments as we put them on. We rear our palaces of joy, And tread them with exulting shout, Till, crumbling round, ’tis plainly found
Some corner-stones have been left out. And thus we play the game of Life, Shadow and substance ever blending; ’Mid flowers of Peace and tares of Strife
Gaily beginning, sadly ending.
The maiden greets her swain to-day, They jar to-morrow, and she flouts him;
Now she believes whate’er he’ll say, A month has gone,—alas! she doubts him;
The lover hangs upon a glance, With glowing trust and earnest sueing; Next year he rouses from his trance, And scorns the one he late was wooing. And thus we play the game of Life, Our dreams dispell’d, our plans defeated,
And when we’ve lost with pain and cost, Still stand, as ready to be cheated.
The cooing infant’s rosy mouth Aptly receives the sweeten’d potion; When waves are calm, and winds are south,
None see the death-rocks in the ocean. The rich man toils to “gather up,” Meaning to bask in Fortune’s clover, And while he pours into his cup, Perceives not it is running over. And thus we play the game of Life, Now simply snared, now wisely brooding,
Now bribed by smiles, now spreading wiles,
Living deluded and deluding.
The Poet prattles to the stars, Philosophers dissect the thunder, But both are stopp’d by crystal bars, And stand outside to watch and wonder. We moralise on battle-plains, Where blood has poured, and fame was won,
We turn and see the baby’s glee
Over his mimic sword and gun. And thus we play the game of Life, ’Twixt holy Thought and fearful Deed. Some only stay to work and pray, And some but live for Crime and Greed.
Our feet of clay trip up each other, Our wings of ether seek the sky; We breathe—we are—child follows mother, Yet none can tell us “How?” or “Why?”
Our hearts, like clocks, keep ticking fast, We climb and laugh, we fall and weep, Till, tired of guessing, at the last
We solve the riddle in a sleep. And thus we play the game of Life, In motley garbs of Grief and Pleasure, Till we are drest in that green vest For which the sexton takes our measure.
Eliza Cook.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 7/A day-dream on the Rhine

A DAY-DREAM ON THE RHINE.
O for a kingdom rocky throned
Above the brimming Rhine!
With vassals who shall pay their toll,
In many sorts of wine;
Above me nought but the blue air,
And all below the vine.   I’d plant my throne where legends say,
In nights of harvest time,
King Charlemagne in golden robe
(So runs the rustic rhyme)
Doth come to bless the mellowing crops,
While the bells of heaven chime
(Children have heard them!); and a bridge
Of gold leaps o’er the stream
For the king to cross. A maiden once
Saw its bright arches gleam;
The priests they burnt her for that sight,
Calling it “Satan’s Dream.”
Churches should in my valleys hide,
Old towers rise on each hill:
The forge, the farm-house, and the inn,
Should cluster round the mill,
And past them all, the river broad,
Should flow at its own sweet will.
My stream at noon of fairy gold,
Should crimson turn ere night,
Then by the magic of the moon,
Change to quick-silver bright.
At dawn each little wave should be Mantled with purple light.
I’d dwell where Charlemagne looked down,
And turning to his peers,
Exclaimed, “Behold for this fair land
I’ve prayed and fought for years,”
Then all the Rhine towers shook to hear
The earthquake of their cheers.
That day the tide ran crimson red,
(But not with Rhenish wine);
Not with those vintage streams that through
The green leaves gush and shine:
’Twas blood that from the Lombard ranks
Rushed down into the Rhine.
’Twas here the German soldiers flocked,
Burning with love and pride,
And threw their muskets down to kiss
The soil with French blood dyed.
“The Rhine—dear Rhine,” ten thousand men,
Kneeling together, cried.
O fairest of the many brides,
Wedded to Father Sea,
That from thy cold home in the snow,
Trippest so merrily,
As if in eager haste of love
To plight thy fealty.
Thy handmaids are the little streams,
That to thee flock and throng,
Each with her own small dower of vines
Each with her special song;
Each like a vein of blood, the more
To make thee stark and strong.
Fair daughter of the crowned Alps
In aspiration bold,
No frost can bind thy fervid flood,
That never doth grow old,
Unchecked by summer’s golden fire,
Or by fierce winter’s cold.
O, special favourite of God,
Eternal beauty cling
Around thy banks—let all thy vines
Together praise and sing,
And o’er thee angels bend and pause
With sheathed and reverent wing.
Sweet river! where the laughing hills
Thy majesty do greet,
And echoes call from rock to rock,
All through the noonday heat,
In earliest dusk the gathering stars
Above thee love to meet.
When lovers in the ferry-boat,
Forget the passing tide,
And closer drawn cling lip to lip,
What though the river’s wide,
And silver clouds no secrets tell
To the towers on either side.
When church-bells o’er the water speak
Of God unto the hill,
Where ruined castles on the cliff,
Speak of God’s anger still,
How strong His arm, how swift His shaft,
Who may resist His will?
Then here upon this haunted Rhine,
My kingdom I will found,
No spectre knight, or goblins blue,
My purpose shall confound;
I’ll bring the golden age again
To this old feudal ground.
Walter Thornbury.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 5/Fleurette

Translation of "Fleurette" (1842)
FLEURETTE. (FROM THE FRENCH OF GUSTAVE LEMOINE.)
“Ah, listen, dear Fleurette, to me. The king, to-morrow, comes this way, And brave gay doings will there be; By Our Lady, ’twere a sight to see The rich and rare array. Listen again: do not forget, Lest you should fail the king to see; You’ll know him by his plumed aigrette.” “Yes, I will look,” replied Fleurette, “And I shall see but thee.”
“The squires, the saucy pages free, The knights, and next the barons bold, And lords of high and low degree, Will march along and pass by thee, All glittering with gold. And many, as they onward go, Finding thee fair as fair may be, Shall, softly whispering, tell thee so.” “Ah, they may whisper soft and low, I shall hear none but thee.”
“Surrounded by his courtiers gay, The king comes last of all the train. ‘Fleurette, I love thee,’ should he say, ‘My crown at thy dear feet I lay, My crown thy love to gain.’ Ah! by a king to be adored Would, by my faith, enchanting be?” “Nay, were I by the king adored, I’d say, ‘I honour you, my lord:’ And I would love but thee.”
Julia Goddard.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 2/Florinda

FLORINDA.
I.
When of old and young the cheer
Ushers in the new-born year;
When the summer flowers decorate its prime,
When the old years sadly go
In their winding-sheets of snow,
To their sepulchres within the halls of Time;
II.
In the daylight, in the dark,
From the rising of the lark,
Till the stars begin to drop into light;
When the sun is on the wall,
When the heavy raindrops fall,
In the weary, weary watches of the night;
III.
Come the vain regrets and tears
For my pride-encanker’d years,
The bitter fruit my bitter fate has borne;
Come the thoughts destroying rest,
Peace and prayer within my breast, Making life-long occupation thus to mourn.
IV.
O, love! thou gift divine,
Once so nobly, humbly mine:
Once so swift my coldest bidding to obey;
O, base, ignoble pride,
That cast the gift aside,
Like a flower idly pluck’d and thrown away.
V.
He loved her not at first,
In security accurst
I thought my power never could depart.
But, O, with patient care
She has won my jewel rare,
And now I’m lost for ever to his heart.
VI.
I could tear her limb from limb,
If I thought his love a whim,
If I hoped to win a thought of his again.
But, no! the time has past,
He has look’d and loved his last,
And I’d die to saveh sh eart a moment’s pain.
VII.
And his child,—her little child!—
With those eyes so brave and mild,
O, would that there were poison in his kiss!
O, strange entangled fate,
How I love her, how I hate:
How I curse her, how I bless her for his bliss!
VIII.
There are voices in the roar
Of the breakers on the shore,—
There are whispers in the wash of the sea.
There are echoes in the breeze,
As it murmurs ’neath the trees,
There are faces in the stars for me.
IX.
Those solemn voices roll
Through the desert of my soul,—
They chill my bleeding heart to its core.
When I pray that peace and rest
Once more may fill my breast,
Comes the never-failing echo—Never more!
A.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 8/The linden trees

THE LINDEN TREES. (Suggested by Schiller’s “Walk under the Linden Trees.”)
I.
Nature hath endless aspects—to the young She doth her beauties and her glories all unfold,
A magic light rests upon land and sea,
And all her brooks are silver, all her sunshine gold.
II.
But to the old that light falls cold and dead,
’Tis ever winter, and the wind blows cold and chill:
For just as earth is coloured by the sky,
So rests the colour of the mind on vale and hill.
III.
Behold those Linden Trees, wrapt in the glow Of crimsoned-burning fire, flooding the sunset sky; From plain to zenith all is mantling gold,
Reflected in the river, gliding, sliding by.
IV.
Thither, at eve, two youthful lovers came,
To meet their loves, while overhead the murm’ring bees
Drowned in soft music every loving word,
And every uttered vow, beneath the Linden Trees.
V.
I only know they parted ; one pressing close
The dearest treasure youth or age can ever know—
Life’s comforter; the other, silent and alone,
Took his sad weary way with faltering steps and slow.
VI.
And, ah! in future years, when memory clings
To by-gone summer hours, and in fond fancy sees
That hour, that golden eve, that gliding stream,
Those meetings underneath the scented Linden Trees,
VII.
For one, the scene will ever gilded be,
Folded in sunset and the music of the bees, And he will say, while pressing closer still,
“Dear life, dear love, those happy, happy Linden Trees.”
VIII.
The other, by his sad and lonely hearth,
Will sigh, “Those dark funereal Linden Trees,
The death of all my hopes, how dark and cold!
I seem to see them tossing in the winter breeze.”
IX.
And yet they change not; summer comes and goes,
And o’er the Linden Trees the sunset lingers still,
Still lovers whisper in the leafy shade;
Nature is changeless—man alone is fickle still!
J. A.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 8/Left on the battle field

LEFT ON THE BATTLE FIELD.
What, was it a dream? am I all alone In the dreary night and the drizzling rain? Hist!—ah, it was only the river’s moan; They have left me behind, with the mangled slain.
Yes, now I remember it all too well! We met, from the battling ranks apart; Together our weapons flashed and fell, And mine was sheathed in his quivering heart.
In the cypress gloom, where the deed was done, It was all too dark to see his face; But I heard his death-groans, one by one, And he holds me still in a cold embrace.
He spoke but once, and I could not hear The words he said for the cannons’ roar; But my heart grew cold with a deadly fear— God! I had heard that voice before!
Had heard it before, at our mother’s knee, When we lisped the words of our evening prayer! My brother! would I had died for thee— This burden is more than my soul can bear!
 I pressed my lips to his death-cold cheek, And begged him to show me, by word or sign, That he knew and forgave me: he could not speak, But he nestled his poor cold face to mine.
The blood flowed fast from my wounded side, And then for a while I forgot my pain, And over the lakelet we seemed to glide In our little boat, two boys again.
And then, in my dream, we stood alone On a forest path where the shadows fell; And I heard again the tremulous tone, And the tender words of his last farewell.
But that parting was years, long years ago, He wandered away to a foreign land; And our dear old mother will never know That he died to-night by his brother’s hand.
The soldiers who buried the dead away, Disturbed not the clasp of that last embrace, But laid them to sleep till the Judgment-day, Heart folded to heart, and face to face.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 3/Violet

VIOLET.
She stood where I had used to wait For her, beneath the gaunt old yew, And near a column of the gate That open’d on the avenue.
The moss that capp’d its granite ball, The grey and yellow lichen stains, The ivy on the old park wall, Were glossy with the morning rains.
She stood, amid such tearful gloom; But close behind her, out of reach, Lay many a mound of orchard bloom, And trellis’d blossoms of the peach.
Those peaches blooming to the south, Those orchard blossoms, seem’d to me Like kisses of her rosy mouth, Revived on trellis and on tree:
Kisses, that die not when the thrill Of joy that answer’d them is mute; But such as turn to use, and fill The summer of our days with fruit.
And she, impressing half the sole Of one small foot against the ground, Stood resting on the yew-tree bole, A-tiptoe to each sylvan sound:
She, whom I thought so still and shy, Express’d in every subtle move Of lifted hand and open eye The large expectancy of love;
Until, with all her dewy hair Dissolved into a golden flame Of sunshine on the sunless air, She came to meet me as I came.
But in her face no sunlight shone; No sunlight, but the sad unrest Of shade, that sinks from zone to zone When twilight glimmers in the west.
What grief had touch’d her on the nerve? For grief alone it is, that stirs The full ineffable reserve Of quiet spirits such as hers:
’Twas this—that we had met to part; That I was going, and that she Had nothing left but her true heart, Made strong by memories of me.
What wonder then, she quite forgot Her old repression and control, And loosed at once and stinted not The tender tumult of her soul?
What wonder, that she droop’d and lay In silence, and at length in tears, On that which should have been the stay And comfort of her matron years?
But from her bosom, as she leant, She took a nested violet, And gave it me—“because ’twas meant For those who never can forget.”
This is the flower: ’tis dry, or wet With something I may call my own. Why did I rouse this old regret? It irks me, now, to be alone:
Triumphs, indeed! Why, after all, My life has but a leaden hue: My heart grows like the heart of Saul, For hatred, and for madness too.
Why sits that smirking minstrel there? I hate him, and the songs he sings; They only bring the fond despair Of inaccessible sweet things:
I will avoid him once for all, Or slay him in my righteous ire— Alas, my javelin hits the wall, And spares the minstrel and his lyre!
Yea, and the crown upon my head, The crown of wealth for which I strove, Shall fall away ere I be dead To yon slight boy who sings of love!
Why are we captive, such as I, Mature in age and strong of will, To one who harps so plaintively? I struck at him—why lives he still?
Why lives he still? Because the ruth Of those pure days may never die: He lives, because his name is Youth; Because his harp is—Memory.
Arthur J. Munby.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 10/The legend of Covenham Bridge

​Page:010 Once a week Volume X Dec 1863 to Jun 64.pdf/679 ​Page:010 Once a week Volume X Dec 1863 to Jun 64.pdf/680
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 8/The first-born Prince of Wales

THE FIRST-BORN PRINCE OF WALES.
[On the death of Llewellyn, the Welsh demanded a native Prince: so King Edward of England, who was then in Wales, sent for Eleanor, his Queen; and she, soon after her arrival in Caernarvon Castle, was delivered of a son, whom the King presented to the Welsh chieftains, and whom they acknowledged as their native Prince.]
I.
Weep, noble lady! weep no more! The woman’s joy is won: Fear not! thy time of grief is o’er, And thou hast borne a son!
II.
Then ceased the Queen from pain and cry, And, as she proudly smiled, The tear stood still within her eye,— A mother saw her child!
III.
“Now bear him to the castle-gate!” Thus did the King command: There, stern and stately all, they wait, The warriors of the land!
IV.
They met,—another Lord to claim,— And loud their voices rung: “We will not brook a stranger’s name, Nor serve the Saxon tongue!
V.
“Our King shall breathe a British birth, And speak with native voice: He shall be Lord of Cymrian earth, The chieftain of our choice!”
VI.
Then might you hear the drawbridge fall, And echoing footsteps nigh: And, hearken! by yon haughty wall, A low and infant cry!
VII.
“God save your Prince!” King Edward said, Your wayward wish is won: Behold him, from his mother’s bed, My child! my first-born son!
VIII.
“Here, in his own, his native place, His future feet shall stand; And rule the children of your race In language of the land!”
IX.
’Twas strange to see: so sternly smiled Those warriors gray and grim: How little thought King Edward’s child Who thus would welcome him!
X.
Nor knew they then how proud the tone They taught their native vales; The shout whole nations lived to own,— God bless the Prince of Wales.
R. S. H.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 3/The legend of the redbreast

THE LEGEND OF THE REDBREAST.
“There is a little bird, mamma,
Upon our holly-tree.
And with his twinkling great black eye
He looks so shy at me.
“I love that little bird, mamma,
So gentle and so still,
To see him pluck the berries bright,
Between his slender bill.
“That he is God's ‘own bird,’ mamma,
You very oft have said:
Why is his little eye so bright,
His little breast so red?”
“It is a pretty tale, my child,
Come stand beside my knee,
And I will tell my little Kate
Red Robin’s history.
“When Jesus for my little girl
And all his children died,
By wicked men unto the cross,
Nailed fast and crucified;
“There came a gentle little bird,
Who, with his efforts weak,
Pluck’d one from out the ‘crown of thorns’
Within his tiny beak.
“And as he pull’d, the crimson stream,
The holiest and the best,
Flowing from where the thorn had been,
Stain’d Robin’s downy breast:
“So ever when the snow comes round
To end the wintry year,
Perch’d high upon the holly-bough
The Redbreast warbles clear.
“No other songster on the spray
At Christmas time is heard;
But when the Saviour’s birth we keep
We hear ‘The Saviour's bird.’”
Astley H. Baldwin.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 1/La fille bien gardée

The signature "S.B." probably, though without confirmation, belongs to Shirley Brooks, frequent contributor to Once a Week and author of other letter poems such as "The private view."
LA FILLE BIEN GARDÉE. (AN INTERCEPTED LETTER.)
# The Candy Cook Book/Chapter 11

CHAPTER XI
FRUIT AND GELATINE CANDIES
Many fruits contain large amounts of pectin which causes them to jelly when cooked with sugar and cooled. To others dissolved gelatine must be added to make the mixture stiff enough to hold its shape.
Gelatine candies are not as sweet as other candies, as they become firm with little boiling, and less sugar need be used.
Gelatine should always be soaked in cold water until liquid is absorbed, then dissolved in or over boiling water or hot syrup.
Granulated gelatine is most conveniently measured, but sheet or shredded gelatine may be substituted; six sheets of gelatine will take the place of four tablespoons granulated gelatine.
Marshmallows, when made in large quantities, usually contain gum arabic. They are beaten by machinery for a long time, and can be made firmer and lighter than is possible when made by hand. ​Page:The candy cook book (IA cu31924090146717).pdf/180 ​Page:The candy cook book (IA cu31924090146717).pdf/181 ​Page:The candy cook book (IA cu31924090146717).pdf/182 ​Page:The candy cook book (IA cu31924090146717).pdf/183 ​Page:The candy cook book (IA cu31924090146717).pdf/184 ​Page:The candy cook book (IA cu31924090146717).pdf/185 ​Page:The candy cook book (IA cu31924090146717).pdf/186 ​Page:The candy cook book (IA cu31924090146717).pdf/187 ​Page:The candy cook book (IA cu31924090146717).pdf/188 ​Page:The candy cook book (IA cu31924090146717).pdf/189 ​Page:The candy cook book (IA cu31924090146717).pdf/190 ​Page:The candy cook book (IA cu31924090146717).pdf/191 ​Page:The candy cook book (IA cu31924090146717).pdf/192 ​Soak orange peel in cold water to cover overnight, then boil one hour, changing the water every fifteen minutes. Drain, and grind the peel to a pulp, then add sugar, half a cup of orange juice, and one fourth cup water, and boil, stirring occasionally to prevent burning, until thick and syrupy. Add gelatine soaked in remaining one fourth cup orange juice, mix well, add orange extract, and drop from tip of teaspoon on to a buttered marble slab or oiled paper. Before wafers have time to stiffen, place a nut meat in center. A small amount of mixture can be combined with finely chopped pecan nut meats and candied cherries, and used as a filling between two wafers. Wafers can be dipped in melted coating chocolate if desired.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 6/Lady Barbara

LADY BARBARA.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 8/The lass of Aben-Hall

THE LASS OF ABEN-HALL.
God save the lass of Aben-Hall! She hath my bleeding heart in thrall; For one glance of her eyes so blue, Some deed of danger I would do; For one kiss of her lips so fine, I’d shed my blood like German wine!
She hath no castles by the sea, Or belted knights on bended knee; She hath no gems or jewels rare, Or any gold except her hair; But she shall be a minstrel’s bride, And tune his harp at evening-tide!
The high-born dames, in silk and fur, Shall turn their heads to look at her; The proudest maidens of them all Shall praise the lass of Aben-Hall; The king, upon his golden throne, Shall sigh to call the maid his own!
And he shall send her jewels rare, To have a ringlet of her hair; And make her Lady of the Land, To kiss her white and bonnie hand; But she shall be a minstrel’s bride, And tune his harp at evening-tide!
George Eric Mackay.