OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Songs (Brechin 1834)/William and Margaret

WILLIAM AND MARGARET.
WHEN all was wrapt in dark midnight, And all were fast asleep, In glided Marg’ret’s grimly ghost, And stood at William’s feet, Her face was like the April morn, Clad in a wint’ry cloud; And clay-cold was her lily hand, That held the sable shroud.
So shall the fairest face appear, When youth and years are flown- Such is the robe that kings must wear, When death hath reft their crown. Her bloom was like the springing flow’r, That sips the silver dew; The rose was budded in her cheek, And opening to the view.
But love had like the canker-worm, Consum’d her early prime; The rose grew pale, and left her cheek; She dy’d before her time. Awake, she cry’d, thy true-love calls, Come from her midnight grave,, Now let they pity hear the maid, Thy love refus’d to save.
This it the dark and fearful hour, When injur’d ghosts complain ; Now dreary graves give up their dead, To haunt the faithless swain. Bethink thee, William, of thy fault, Thy pledge and broken oath; And give me back my maiden vow, And give me back my troth.
​How could you say my face was fair, And yet that face forsake? How could you win my virgin heart, Yet leave that heart to break? How could you promise love to me, And not that promise keep? Why did you swear mine eyes were bright, Yet leave those eyes to weep?
How could you say my lip was sweet, And made the scarlet pale? And why did I, young witless maid, Believe the flatt'ring tale? That face, alas! no more is fair; That lip no longer red; Dark are mine eyes, now clos’d in death, And ev’ry charm is fled.
The hungry worm my sister is, This winding-sheet I wear: And cold and weary lasts our night, ’Till that last morn appear. But hark! the cock has warn’d me hence: A long and last adieu: Come see, false man, how low she lies, That dy’d for love of you.
Now birds did sing, and morning smile, And shew her glistering head; Pale William shook in ev’ry limb, Then raving left his bed. He hy’d him to the fatal place Where Marg’ret’s body lay, And stretch’d him on the green grass turf, That wrapt her breathless clay.
And thrice lie call’d on Marg’ret’s name, And thrice he wept full sore; Then laid his cheek to the cold earth, And word spake never more,
# Songs (Brechin 1834)/Pity the lads that are free

PITY THE LADS THAT ARE FREE
Pity the lads that are free, Pity the chiels that are single;
For gude sake! tak pity on me. I’m teased night an’ day wi’ Jean Pringle.
For lasses I carena a preen, My heart’s my ain an’ I’m chary,
An', wer’t nae for that cutty Jean, I’d sleep as soun’ as a peerie!
What's beauty?—it a’ lies in taste! For nane o’t wad I gie a bodle!
But hers, hauntin’ me like a ghaist, Is whiles like to turn my noddle!
She’s wooers—but what's that to me? They’re walcome to dance a’ about her;
Yet I like na her smilin’ sae slee To lang Sandy Lingles the souter!
Yestreen I cam in frae the plew, The lasses were a’ busy spinnin;
I stoiter'd as if I’d been fou, For Jeanie a sang was beginnin’.
I hae heard fifty maids sing. Whiles ane an’ whiles a’ thegether;
But nane did the starting tears bring Till she sung the “Braes of Balquhither.”
Last Sunday, when gaun to the kirk, I met wi' my auld aunty Beenie;
I looked as stupid’s a stirk When simply she said—"How is Jeanie?"
An' at e'en, when I, wi' the rest, Was carritched baith Larger an’ Single,
When speered-Wham we suld like best? I stammered out—“ Young Jennie Pringle !
​Last cul I gaed in to the fair, To wair out my Hallowmas guinea ;
When wha said I fa' in wi' there A’ dinket cut finely-but Jeanie;
I couldna gang by her for shame, I couldna but speak else be saucy,
See I had to oxter her hame, An’ buy a silk snood to the lassie
It’s no but she’s baith gude an fair. It's no but she’s winsome an’ bonnie:
Her cen, glancing ’neath gowden hair, Are brighter, I daursay, than eny.
But pawkie een's naething to me, Of gowd locks I want nae the straikin’;
Folk speak about love—but they’ll see. For anee, by my faith ! they’re mistaken.
I promised the lasses a spree, I promised the lads a paradin’,
I canna weel hae’t—let me see— Unless I get up a bit waddin’.
I think I'll send ower for the clark, He might cry us out the neist Sunday;
It’s winter—we’re nae thrang at wark, Sae I think I’ll just marry gn Monday!
# Songs (Brechin 1834)/Janet an' me

JANET AN' ME.
O, WHA are sae happy as me an’ my Janet? O, wha are sae happy as Janet an’ me?
We'er baith turning auld, an'our w'ealth is soon tauld, But eontentment ye'll find in our cottage sae wee.
She the lang day when I'm out wi' the owsen,
She croons i' the house while I sing at the plough;
And aye her blythe smile walcomes me frae my toil, As up the laug glen I come weared, J trow!
​When I’m at the benk she is mending the cleadin’, She’s darnin’ the stockings when I sole the shoon;
Our cracks keeps us cheery—-we work till we’re weary, An’ syne we sup sowans, when ance we are done.
She's bakin a scone while I'm smokin’ my cutty, When I’m i’ the stable she’s milkin’ the kye,
I envy not kings, when the gloamin’ time brings The canty fireside to my Janet an’ I!
Aboon our auld heads we’ve a decent clay biggin’. That keeps out the cauld when the simmer’s awa;
We’ve twa wabs o’ linen o’ Janet’s ain spinnin’, As thick as dog-lugs, an’ as white as the snaw!
We've a kebbuck or twa, an’ some meal i’ the girnel,
Yon sow is our ain that plays grumph at the door;
An’ something, I’ve guess’d, ’s in yon auld painted kist, That Janet, fell bodie, ’s laid up to the fore!
Nae doubt, we have haen our ain sorrows and troubles, Aften times pouches toom, an’ hearts fu’ o’ care;
But still, wi’ our crosses, our sorrows an’ losses, Contentment, be thankit, has aye been our share!
I’ve an auld roosty sword, that was left by my father Whilk ne’er shall be drawn till our king has a fae;
We hae friends ane or twa, that aft gie us a ea’, To laugh when we’re happy, or grieve when we’re wae
The laird may hae gowd mair than schoolmen can reckon,
An’ flunkies to watch ilka glance o’ his e’e;
His lady, aye braw, may sit in her ha’, But are they mair happy than Janet an’ me?
A’ ye, wha ne’er ken’t the straught road to be happy, Wha are na content wi’ the lot that that ye dree,
Come down to the dwallin' of whilk I’ve been tellin’ Ye’se learn’t by lookin’ at Janet an’ me
# Songs (Brechin 1834)/Young Willie the ploughman

YOUNG WILLIE THE PLOUGHMAN.
YOUNG Willie, the ploughman, has nae land nor siller An’ yet the blythe callant's as crouse as a king;
He eourts his ain lass, an’ he sings a sang till her, Tak tent an’ ye’se hear what the laddie does sing:—
“O! Jenny, to tell that I loe you 'fore ony. Wad need finer words than I’ve gatten to tell!
Nor need I say to you, ye're winsome and bonnie,— I’m thinkin’ ye ken that fu’ brawly yoursel’!
“I’ve courted you lang—do ye hear what I'm telling? I’ve courted you, thinkin’ ye yet wad be mine:
And if we suld marry wi’ only ae shilling, At the warst, only ae shilling, Jenny, we’se tine.
But love doesna aye lie in gowpens o’ guineas, Nor happiness dwall whar the coffers aie fu’;
As muckle we’ll surely aye gather atween us, That want ne’er sal meet us, nor mis’ry pursue.
“The ehiels that are ehristened to riches an’ grandeur, Ken nought o’ the pleasure that hard labour brings;
What in idleness comes, they'in idleness squander, While the labouring man toils a’ the lang day an sings!
Then why should we envy the great an’ the noble? The thocht is a kingdom—it’s ours what we hae!
A boast that repays us for sair wark an’ trouble; ‘I’ve earned it!’ is mair than a monarch can say.
“The green buds now peep through the auld runkled timmer, The sun, at a breath, drinks the hail morning dew.
An’ nature is glad at the comin’ o’ simmer, As glad as I’m aye at the smiling o’ you!
The flowers are a’ springing, the birds are a’ singing, And beauty and pleasure are wooin’ the plain;
Then let us employ it, while we may enjoy it, The simmer o’ life, Jenny, comes na again!’
# Songs (Brechin 1834)/Bruce's lines

BRUCE'S LINES.
THE following verses were composed in early life by the late Rev. Mr. Bruce of Brechin, on a circumstance connected with his own personal history. Though never in print before they are well known to many old people in the destrict by the name prefixed to this n(illegible text)—Bruce’s Lines.
As I went out one evening to meet with my dear,
The blue sky was bright,and the full moon shone clear;
Not long had I waited by the river’s green side.
When coming to meet me my Annie I spy’d.
How happy that moment—how happy was I—
The wealth of the world such bliss could not buy,
Its wealth and its honors were nothing to me,
When with my dear Annie by the lone green-wood-tree.
“O Annie! dear Annie! I must leave you a while-
I go on a journey of many a long miles
I go to the Highlands some time to remain,
But I know you’ll be constant till I come again.”-
I went to the Highlands some time to remain,
But ah! she was married e’er I came again-
Another more wraithy had offer’d his hand,
And I was forsaken for houses and land,
O all ye young men take warning by me,
Beware of the briers of the bonny rose-tree.
In July it will blossom and in August decay.
But the thorns remain when the leaves fall away!
But now I’ve resolved a shepherd to be
And my flock shall of all things be dearest to me,
I'll feed it, and lead it, in weal and in woe,
Where the green pastures grew, and the still waters flow
# Tragical end of William and Margaret

THE TRAGICAL END OF WILLIAM and MARGARET.
To which are added.
The Laird of Logie.
The Soldier's Adieu.
Stirling, Printed by M. Randall.
* William and Margaret
* The Laird of Logie
* The Soldier's Adieu
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
# Tragical end of William and Margaret/The Laird of Logie

The laird of Logie.
The young laird of Logie is to prison caſt, Carmichael's the keeper of the key ​Lady Margaret the Queen's cousin is very sick, and it's all for love of young Logie. She's inco the queens chamber gone, she has kneeld low down on her kree: Says she you must go to the King yourself, it's all for a pardon to young Logie.
The Queen is unto the King's chamber gone, she has kneel'd low down or her knee; O what is the matter my gracious Queen? and what means all this courtesie? Have not I made the Queen of fair Scotland? the Queen of England I trow thou be; Have not I made thee my wedded wife? then what needs all this courtesie?
You have made me Queen of Scotland, the Queen of England I surely be: Since you have made me your wedded wife, will you grant a pardon for young Logie! The King he turned him right round about, I think an angry man was he; The morrow before it is twelve o'clock, O hang'd shalt the laird of Logie be.
The Queen she's into her chamber gone amongst her Mary's so frank and free, You may weap, you may weep Margaret she says, for hanged must the laird of Logie be, She has torn her silken scarf and hood, and so has she her yellow hair; New fare you well both King and Queen, and adieu to Scotland for ever mair!
​She has put of her gown of silk, and so has she her gay clothing Go fetch me a knife and I'll kill myself, since the laird of Logie is not mine. Then out bespoke our gracious Queen, and she spoke wards most tenderlie, Now hold your hand, Lady Marg'ret, she said, and I'll try to set young Legie free,
She's up into the King's chambr gone, and among his nobles so free; Hold away, hold away, says our gracious King, no more of your pardons for young Logie, Had you but ask'd me for houses and land, I would have give you castles three; Or any thing else shall be at your command, but only a pardon for young Logie.
Hold your hand now my Sovereign Liege, and of your ange: let it be; For the innoxent blood of Lady Marg'ret it will rest on the head of thee and me. The King and Queen aie gone to their bed, but as he was sleeping so quietly the She has stole the keys from below his head, and has sent to set young Logie free.
Young Logie hes on horse-back got, of chains and fetters he's got free: As he pass'd by the King's window, there he has fired vollies three. The King he awał'ned out of his sleep out of his bed came hostilie, ​Says, I'll lay all my lands and rents, that yonder's the laird of Logie free. The King has sent to the prison strong, he has call'd for his keepers three: Says, How does all your prisoners, and how does the young laird of Logie? Your Majesty sent me your wedding rings with your high command to set him free; Then to morrow before that I eat or drink, I surely will hang you keepers three,
Then out bespoke our gracious Queen, and she spoke words most tenderlie, If ever you begin to hang a man for this, your Majesty must begin with me. The one took shipping at Lith the other at the Queen's-ferrie; Lady Margaret has gotten the man she loves, I mean the young laird of Logie.
# Tragical end of William and Margaret/William and Margaret

William and Margaret.
WHEN all was wrapt in dark midnight, and all was faſt aſleep; In glided Marg'ret a griſly Ghoſt, and ſtood at Wiliam's feet
Her face was like the April morn, clad in a wintry cloud; And clay cold was her lilly hand, that held the fable ſhroud.
Se fall the faireſt face appear, when youth and years are flown; Such is the robe that Kings muſt wear, when death has reſt the crown.
Her blood is like the ſpringing flow'r, that ſips the ſilver dew; She rode was backed in her cheek; and op'ning to the view.
But love had like the canker worm, conſum'd her early prime: The roſe grew pale and left her check, ſhe died before her prime:
​Awake, ſhe ery'd, thy true love calls come from her midnight grave; Now let thy pity hear the maid, thy love refu'd to ſave.
This is the dark and f a ful hour, wheu injur'd ghoſts complain, Now dreary graves give up their dead, to heat the faith'eſs swain.
Bethink slice Wiliam, of thy fault, thy pledge and brakes sath, And give me back her maiden vow, and give us back my troth.
How could you ſay my face was fair, and yet that ſrce forthske? How could yap win my virgin heart, yet leave that heart to break,
How could you promiſe love to me, and eat that promiſe keep? Why did you ſwear my eyes were bright, yet leave the eyes to weep?
How cou'd you ſay my lps were red; and made the ſcarlet pale? And why did I young witleſs maid, believe your flattering tale?
That face, a'as,! no more is fair; those lips no longer red, ​Dark are mine eyes, now clos'd in death, and every charm is fled,
The hungry words my ſiſter is, this winding ſheet I wear And cold and wears laſte that night: till that laſt morn appear.
But hark! the cock has warn'd me hence, a laſt and long adieu; Come ſee falſe man, how low ſhe lies, that died for love of you
New bids did ſing, and morning fail'd, and ſhaw'd her gliſt'ning head; Pale William ſhook in er'ry limb, then raving left his bed.
He hy'd him to the fatal place, where Marg'ret's body lay, And stretch'd him en the green graſs turf, that wrapt ber breathleſs e'ay,
And thrice he call'd on Marg'ret's name, and thrice he wept full frae Then laid his cheek to the cold earth, and words ſpoke never more
# Lay thy loof in mine lass (Stirling)/A drinking song

A DRINKING SONG.
WHAT argusies pride and ambition? soon or late death must take us in tow, Each bullet has got its commission and when our time's come we must go:
CHORUS.
Then drink and sing, pang pain and sorrow, the halter was made for the neck, He that's now lively and lusty—tomorrow, perhaps may be stretched on the deck.
There was little Tom Ernstock, of Dover, got kill'd, and left Polly in pain, Poll cry'd but her grief was soon over, and then she got married again. Then, &c.
FINIS.
# The Banks of Nith

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.
* "The Banks of Nith", a song by Robert Burns ("The Thames flows proudly to the sea")
* "The Banks of Nith", a song by Robert Burns ("To thee, lov'd Nith, thy gladsome plains")
# The Poetical Works of Robert Burns/The Banks of Nith ("To thee, lov'd Nith, thy gladsome plains")

THE BANKS OF NITH.
A BALLAD.
# Logan Braes

* "Logan-Braes & Answer", in The Jovial Rantin' Highlandman (n.d.), a chapbook printed in Falkirk
* "Logan Braes" in The Highland Plaid (n.d.), a chapbook printed in Stirling
* "By Logan Streams", in George and Britain Save (1825), a chapbook printed in Stirling
* "Logan Braes", in The Book of Scottish Song (1843), edited by Alexander Whitelaw
# George and Britain Save (1825, Stirling)/By Logan Streams

BY LOGAN STREAMS.
FINIS.
# Plowman's ditty/Smirky Nan

SMIRKY NAN.
Tune——My Nanny O.
Ah! woes me! poor Willie cried, see how I'm wasted to a span! My heart is lost, when first I spy'd the charming lovely milk-maid Nan.
​I'm grown so weak, a gentle breeze; of the dusky winnowing fan. Would blow me o'er yon beechy trees, and all for thee my smirky Nan.
The Ale-wife misses me of late, I used to take a hearty cann; Rut now I neither drink nor eat, unless ’tis brew’d and bak'd by Nan.
The baker bakes the best of bread, the flour he takes and leaves the bran; The bran is every other maid, compar'd with thee, my smirky Nan.
But Dick o' the green, that nesty lown, last Sunday to my mistress ran He snatch’d a kiss, I knock’d him down, which hugely pleas'd my smirky Nan.
But hark! the roaring rodger comes, and rattles tantara tarran; She leaves her cows for noisy drums, woes me I’ve lost my smirky Nan.
FINIS.
# Smirky Nan

* "Smirky Nan", in The Tempest, To which are added… (1802), a chapbook printed in Glasgow
* "Smirky Nan", in Plowman's ditty (1820), a chapbook printed in Edinburgh
# The Tempest, To which are added…/The Tempest

THE TEMPEST.
TUNE———BROTHER DEBTOR.
CEASE, rude Boreas, bluſt'ring railer, listen ye landmen all to me:
Meſs-mates, hear a brother ſailor, ſing the dangers of the ſea. From bounding billows firſt in motion, where the diſtant whirlwinds riſe, To the tempeſt-troubled ocean, when the ſeas contend with ſkies.
Hark! the boatſwain hoarſely bawling, by top-ſail-ſheets and haulyards ſtand, Down top-gallants, quick be hauling, down your ſtay-ſails, hand boys, hand. Now it freſhens, ſet the braces, the lee top-ſail-ſheet let go, Luff, boys, luff, don't make wry faces, up your top-ſails nimbly clew.
Now all you on down-beds ſporting; fondly lock'd 'twixt beauty's arms, Freſh engagement, wanting courting, ſafe from all but love's alarms. Around us roars the tempeſt louder; think what fear our minds enthral: Harder yet, it blows yet harder, now again the boatſwain's call.
​The top-ſailward point to the wind, boys, ſee all clear to reef each courſe; Let the fore-ſheet go, don't mind boys, tho' the weather ſhould be worſe: Fore and aft the ſpritſail-yard get, reef the mizzen, ſee all clear; Hands up, each preventure brace fet, man the fore-yard; cheer, lads, cheer.
Now the dreadful thunder's roaring, peals on peals contending claſh, On your heads fierce rain falls pouring, in your eyes blue lightnings flaſh. One wide water all around us. all above but one black ſky! Diff'rent deaths at once ſurround us, hark! What means yon dreadful cry?
The foremaſt's gone, cries every tongue out, o'er the lee, twelve feet 'bove deck! A leak beneath the cheſtree's ſprung out! call all hands to clear the wreck, Quick she laniards cut to pieces, come, my hearts, be ſtout and bold; Plumb the well, the leak increaſes, four feet water's in the hold!
While o'er die ſhip the wild waves beatings; we for, wives ard children mourn: Alas! from them there's no retreating, alas! to them there's no return! Still tit leak is gaining on us! both chain-pumps are cboak'd below; ​Heav'n have mercy here upon us! only He can ſave us now.
On the lee-beam is the land, boys, let the guns o'er board be thrown; To the pump come ev'ry hand boys, ſee her mizzen-maſt is gone. The leak, we’ve found, it cannot pour faſt, we’ve light’ned her a foot and more; Then up and rig a jury foremaſt, ſhe’s tight, ſhe’s tight, boys, we’re off ſhore.
Now once more, on joys we're thinking, ſince kind Fortune ſav’d our lives: Come, the cann, boys, let's be drinking, to our ſweethearts and our wives. Fill it up, about ſhip wheel it, clofe to the lips the brimmer join, Where’s the tempeſt now? Who ſee’s it? none—our danger’s drown’d in wine.
# The Tempest, To which are added…/The Cambridge Tender

The CAMBRIDGE TENDER.
HARD was my lot to be diſplay'd, by Cupid’s cruel arrow; Since I’m oblig’d to go to ſea, I go in grief and ſorrow. Now from your arms I muſt away, Peggy take my heart a keeping, May the Pow’rs above protect my love, till our next happy meeting.
Falſe information, my dear jewel, proved our ſeparation, ​And forc'd me from your breaſt amain, into ſome foreign nation. My reputation they diſdain'd, their might I could not hinder, Which caus'd me to be preſs'd away, and ſent aboard the tender.
Peggy, my jewel, do not grieve, ſuppoſe I muſt retire, Since I'm oblig'd to go to ſea, it's you I do admire. When I'm upon the raging ſea, and in the midſt of ſtrangers, The thoughts of you my deareſt dear, will help me out of dangers.
# The Tempest, To which are added…/The Answer

THE ANSWER.
MY jewel's gone to range the ſeas, to plow the bluft'ring ocean; May the God of Fortune on him ſmile, ſend him honour and promotion. No rain, or hail, or light'nings fly, nor roaring claps of thunder, Nor ſwelling billows loudly baul, my darling to cauſe wonder.
Great Alexander, God of war, tenderly ſmile upon him; Let no diſappointment attend my dear; ſend him honour and promote him. May not my jewel be diſmay'd, with cruel wars alarms, ​Some things in view may turn a prize, til it fill my love-ſick arms.
No curſed gold, no beauty bright, ſhall ever gain him from me, But like the turtle I ſhall remain, 'till he returns unto me. No coſtly robes, no beds of down, ſhall make me to ſurrender; Although we part he has my heart on board the Cambridge Tender.
# The Tempest, To which are added…/The Joys of the Harvest

The JOYS of the HARVEST.
COME all ye Lads and Laſſes, together let us go, Into ſome pleaſant corn-field, our courage for to ſhow. With the edge of our sickles, ſo brave we clear the land? Work on my boys the Farmer cries, here's liquor at command.
With a good old leathern bottle, and beer that is to brown, We ſtrip and reap together, while bright Phœbus does go down: So early in the morning, the birds begin to ſing, Such echoes of ſweet harmony, make all the groves to ring.
And in comes pretty Nancy, her colour for to raiſe, ​She is a lovely creature, I muſt ſpeak in her praiſe: She is a lovely creature, the flow'r of my delight, Through a!l the groves and foreſts, l'Il range both day and night.
John Preſton has good liquor, good liquor it is ſaid, Good liquor makes good blood, and good blood pretty maids, She gathers it and ſhe binds it, the loads it in her arms, She pitch'd it to the waggoner, for to fill up his barns.
And thus the induſtrious Farmer, by the ſweet of his brow, He labours and endeavours, to make his barley now. New harveſt it's all over, and corn is free from harm; Before we to the market go, we muſt threſh in the barn.
And at the harveft ſupper, ſo merrily we will ſing: We'll drink a health to the barley-mow, and to great George our King, So here's a health to the Farmers, er elſe we were to blame, We'll wiſh then health and happineſs, till harveſt comes again.