OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Strange and wonderful history and prophecies of Mother Shipton/Chapter 1

THE
HISTORY
OF
MOTHER SHIPTON, &c.
CHAP. I.
Of her Birth and Parentage.
MOTHER SHIPTON, as all histories agree, was a Yorkshire woman. The particular place was very much disputed, because several towns have pretended to the honour of her birth; but the most credible and received opinion ascribes it to Knaresborough, near the the dropping well, in the said county. Concerning her pedigree, or parentage, there is likewise very various reports; some say her father was a Necromancer, and that he had skill in the black art, which thereby became entailed on her by inheritance; but the ​common story, which therefore, I shall follow, yet without forcing the reader to believe whether he will or no, is, that she never had any father of human race, or mortal weight, but was begot as the great Welch prophet Motlia was of old, by the phantasm of Apollo, or some wanton ærial Dæmon, in manner following: Her mother, whom some records call Agatha, and others Emmathe, being left an orphan about the age of sixteen, very poor, and much troubled with that grievous, but common disease, called by some idleness, and others sloth: As she was once upon a time sitting bemoaning herself on a shady bank by the highway side, a spirit appeared to her in the shape of a handsome young man; and smiling on her, "pretty maid" quoth he, "why dost thou sit so sad; thou art not old enough to have thy head pestered with the cares of the world: Prithee tell me thy business and doubt not but I will help thee out of thy troubles," The maid casting up her eyes, and not suspecting a devil hid in so comely a countenance, related to him her wants, and that she knew not how to live: ​"Pish," said he, "that's nothing be ruled by me, thou shalt never lack" She hearing him promise so fairly; told him she would; and there upon to draw her by degrees to destruction, he first tempted her to fornication, and prevailed so far as to gain her; but his touches, as she afterwards confessed to the midwife, were as cold as ice or snow—From this time forward, she was commonly visited once a day by her hellish gallant, and never wanted money; for still as she swept the house, she would find some odd nine pences, quarters of thirteen-pence half-pences, and the like, sufficient to supply her occasions.
# The Book of Were-Wolves/Preface

PREFACE.
This book is a monograph on a peculiar form of popular superstition, prevalent among all nations, and in all ages.
That this is an exhaustive treatise, I do not pretend. I have material by me which would have extended it to double its size, but without tending further to elucidate the subject.
There are several interesting subjects connected with Lycanthropy, such as metempsychosis, innate cruelty, hallucination, &c., which could only be touched upon and indicated in the following pages, without being thoroughly investigated; this may give a fragmentary character to the book, but this, I believe, was ​unavoidable, without vastly extending its limits. The arrangement that I have followed will be found sketched out at the close of the introductory chapter. The chapter on a Galician cannibal has already appeared in print, in Once a Week.
I propose making this the first of a series on Popular Superstitions, to be followed by Treatises on Marine Monsters, as Mermaids and Sea-Serpents, Vampires, the Wild Huntsman, the Wandering Jew, &c.
The subject of this first instalment, though horrible, is nevertheless full of interest and importance as elucidating a very obscure and mysterious chapter in the history of the Human Mind. When a form of superstition is prevalent everywhere, and in all ages, it must rest upon a foundation of fact; what that foundation actually is, I have, I hope, proved conclusively in the following pages.
# The Book of Scottish Song/Fairest of her days

Fairest of her days.
Whoe'er beholds my Helen's face, And says not that good hap has she; Who hears her speak, and tents her grace, Sall think nane ever spake but she. The short way to resound her praise She is the lairest of her days.
Who knows her wit, and not admires, He maun be deem'd devoid of skill; Her virtues kindle strong desires In them that think upon her still. The short way, &c.
Her red is like unto the rose Whase buds are op'ning to the sun, Her comely colours do disclose The first degree of ripeness won. The short way, &c.
And with the red is mixt the white, Like to the sun and fair moonshine, That does upon clear waters light, And makes the colour seem divine. The short way, &c.
# The Book of Scottish Song/Fairly shot of her

Fairly shot of her.
[This is the name of a tune of considerable antiquity. O'Keefe adopts it for one of his songs in his still popular musical afterpiece called "The Highland Reel," first acted in 1788. His song begins, "Boys, when I play, cry, O Crimini." The old words to the tune, we imagine, are lost, but the following song probably embraces a portion of them, or at least the spirit of them. It was written by John Anderson, who served his apprenticeship as a music-engraver, to Johnson, the publisher of the Museum, in which work the song appears.]
O gin I were fairly shot o' her! Fairly, fairly, fairly shot o' her! O gin I were fairly shot o' her! If she were dead, I wad dance on the top o' her!
Till we were married, I cottldna see licht till her; For a month after, a' thing aye gaed richt wi' her: But these ten years I ha'e prayed for a wright to her— O gin I were fairly shot o' her!
Nane o' her relations or friends could stay wi' her: The neebours and balms are fain to flee frae her: And I my ain sel' am forced to gi'e way till her: Oh gin I were fairly shot o' her!
She gangs aye sae braw, she's sae muckle pride in her; There's no a gudewife in the haill country-side like her: Wi' dress and wi' drink, the deil wadna bide wi' her: Oh gin I were fairly shot o' her!
If the time were but come that to the kirk-gate wi' her, And into the yird I'd mak' mysel' quit o' her, I'd then be as blythe as first when I met wi' her. Oh gin I were fairly shot o' her!
# The Book of Scottish Song/Fair Helen

Fair Helen.
[Tune, "Humours of Glen."]
The bright rose o' simmer the brier was adornin', An' sweet fell the perfume encirclin' the flower, An' rich on its leaves hung the tears o' the mornin', An' saft sigh'd the gale thro' the brier-shaded bower: But Helen, fair Helen, the early dawn courtin', Appear'd, an' now pale grew the rose's deep dye; When rival'd Aurora beheld the nymph sportin', She mantled her face in a fold o' the sky.
Enraptured I saw her sae bloomin' an' bonnie, That love bade the full tide o' fervour to flow; But blame na my ardour, for tell me could onie Resist the fond impulse—ah! tell me? oh no.— Though calm was the hour, and delicious the pleasure. When viewin' the beauties o' Nature sae fair. Beside lovely Helen, 'twas joy without measure, The fairest, the dearest, the sweetest was there!
A boon may I venture to beg frae thee. Heaven? Amid a' my care, an' my toil, an' my fear, Be the heart-warmin' impulse o' frien'ship me given, To live in her smile, or be worthy her tear: An' never, thou dread power. Adversity, bend her; Frae sadness an' sorrow, oh! aye be she free: That ilka true bliss may for ever attend her,— Is the prayer o' the poet, dear Helen, for thee.
# The Book of Scottish Song/Fair fa' the Lasses

Fair fa’ the Lasses.
[Captain Charles Gray, R. M.—Air, "Green grow the rashes."]
Fair fa' the lasses, O! Fair fa' the lasses, O! May dool and care still be his share, Wha doesna lo'e the lasses, O!
Pale poverty and girnin' care, How lang will ye harass us, O? Yet light's the load we ha'e to bear, If lessened by the lasses, O! Fair fa' the lasses, &c.
The rich may sneer as they gae by, Or scornfully may pass us, O; Their better lot we'll ne'er envy, But live and love the lasses, O! Fair fa' the lasses, &c.
Why should we ever sigh for wealth? Sic thochts should never fash us, O; A fig for pelf, when blest wi' health, Content, and bonnie lasses, O! Fair fa' the lasses, &c.
The ancient bards, to shaw their skill, Placed Muses on Parnassus, O, But let them fable as they will, My muses are the lasses, O! Fair fa' the lasses, &c.
The toper cries, the joy o' wine A' ither joy surpasses, O; But he ne'er kent the bliss divine, That I ha'e wi' the lasses, O! Fair fa' the lasses, &c.
When I am wi' the chosen few, The time fu' quickly passes, O: But days are hours, and less, I trow, When I am wi' the lasses, O! Fair fa' the lasses, &c.
When joys abound, then let a round Of overflowing glasses, O, Gae brisk about, and clean drunk out, The toast be—"bonnie lasses," O!
Fair fa' the lasses, O! Auld Scotland's bonnie lasses, O! May dool and care still be his share, Wha winna toast the lasses, O!
# The Book of Scottish Song/Far, far away

Far, far away.
[Tune, "The Highland Watch."]
Far, far away, in strange country, The soldier watch is keeping, Beneath some tower, at midnight hour, When all besides are sleeping. The moon is half,—her chilly rays On hill-tops are reclining: The sea is calm,—it soothing plays A soft and sweet repining. Save this, and the proud soldier's tread, That is with echo hounding, All else is stilly as the dead In hill and plain surrounding.
Say, as he goes his weary round, What is the thought that rises? Where are his dark eyes gazing found? What is the wish he prizes? Oh! thinks he not of native home, With memory's thrilling feelings?— Of scenes where he in youth did roam, And all their fond revealings? ​And looks he not beyond that sea, Where his lov'd land is lying? And is it not for it that he So heavily is sighing?
Scotland!—the word sounds as a spell, The marks of magic bearing, And, like a mother's voice, doth swell Remembrances endearing— Tho' rough thy shore, and cold thy clime, Thy son, where'er he ranges,— Be't by the heavy-rolling Rhine, Or heavier-rolling Ganges,— Still thinks upon thy thousand rills, While the big tear doth gather,— And longs to climb thy hoary hills, And brush their native heather.
# The Book of Scottish Song/Fair modest flower

Fair modest flower.
[William Reid, bookseller, Glasgow.—Tune, "Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon."]
Fair modest flower, of matchless worth! Thou sweet, enticing, bonnie gem, Blest is the soil that gave thee birth, And blest thine honour'd parent stem. But doubly blest shall be the youth, To whom thy heaving bosom warms; Possess'd of beauty, love, and truth, He'll clasp an angel in his arms.
Though storms of life were blowing snell, And on his brow sat brooding care, Thy seraph smile would quick dispel The darkest gloom of black despair. Sure heaven hath granted thee to us, And chose thee from the dwellers there, And sent thee from celestial bliss, To show what all the virtues are.
# The Book of Scottish Song/Fare thee weel

Fare thee weel.
[John Imlah.]
Fare thee weel, my bonnie lass, Fare thee weel, my ain lassie! Monie a day maun come and pass, Ere we shall meet again, Lassie! Monie a chance and monie a change, Ere that lang day we'll see, lassie! But where'er my feet may range, My heart shall be with thee, lassie! ​Fair may bloom my future bower, On some far Indian isle, lassie! Rich and rare its fruit and flower, My wearie hours may wile, lassie! But the burn and hazel brae, Where we sae aft ha'e met, lassie; I for ever may foregae, But never can forget, lassie!
Whate'er betide—where'er betake, My lot 'mid strangers cast, lassie! Joy may come, but never make The present like the past, lassie! Fare thee weel! the future will Through peril, toil, and pain, lassie, Bring me back, to find thee still In faithful love my ain lassie!
# The Book of Scottish Song/Exile of Uldoonan

Exile of Uldoonan.
[John Grieve.—The air of this is given in "The Scottish Minstrel," and is said to have been long current in the north of Scotland as the composition of John M'Murdo of Kintall. It is the same as what appears among the Irish Melodies under the name of "The Legacy."]
Adieu to rock and to water-fall, Whose echoes start among Albyn's hills, A long adieu, Uldoonan! and all Thy wildwood steeps, and thy sparkling rills. From the dreams of my childhood and youth I awaken, And all the sweet visions that fancy wove; Adieu! ye lone glens, and ye braes of green braken, Endeared by friendship, and hope, and love.
The stranger came, and adversity's wind Blew cold and chill on my father's hearth; I strove, but vainly, some shelter to find Among the fields of my father's birth: But my desolate spirit shall never be severed From the home where a sister and mother once smiled, Though within its bare walls lies the roof-tree all shivered, And mouldering rubbish is spread and piled.
I hear before me the waters roar; I see the galley in yonder bay, All ready and trim, she beckons the shore, And seems to chide my longer stay. Uldoonan! when lingering afar from thy valley, At my pilgrimage close o'er the billowy brine, Harps long will be strung, and new voices will hail thee, Without devotion and love like mine.
# The Book of Scottish Song/Fair Eliza

Fair Eliza.
[Written by Burns for Johnson's Museum, where it appears set to two different Gaelic airs. "Robina," not "Eliza," was the real name of the heroine.]
Turn again, thou fair Eliza! Ae kind blink before we part, Rue on thy despairing lover! Canst thou break his faithfu' heart? Turn again, thou fair Eliza! If to love thy heart denies, For pity, hide the cruel sentence Under friendship's kind disguise! ​Thee, dear maid, ha'e I offended? The offence is loving thee: Canst thou wreck his peace for ever, Wha for thine wad gladly die? While the life beats in my bosom, Thou Shalt mix in ilka thoe: Turn again, thou lovely maiden, Ae sweet smile on me bestow.
Not the bee upon the blossom, In the pride of sunny noon; Not the little sporting fairy, All beneath the simmer moon; Not the poet in the moment Fancy lightens in his e'e, Kens the pleasure, feels the rapture, That thy presence gi'es to me.
# The Book of Scottish Song/Fair in Kinrara

This song is by Ann Allardyce, but this text misattributes it to her husband Alexander Allardyce.
Fair in Kinrara.
[Written by the Rev. Mr. Allardice, of Forgue, in memory of the late Duchess of Gordon.—Set to music by John Knott, Aberdeen.]
Fair in Kinrara blooms the rose, And softly waves the drooping lily, Where beauty's faded charms repose, And splendour rests on earth's cold pillow. Her smile, who sleeps in yonder bed, Could once awake the soul to pleasure,
When fashion's airy train she led, And form'd the dance's frolic measure.
When war call'd forth our youth to arms, Her eye inspired each martial spirit; Her mind, too, felt the muse's charms, And gave the meed to modest merit. But now farewell, fair northern star, Thy beams no more shall courts enlighten, No more lead forth our youth to arms, No more the rural pastures brighten.
Long, long thy loss shall Scotia mourn; Her vales, which thou were wont to gladden, Shall long look cheerless and forlorn, And grief the minstrel's music sadden. And oft, amid the festive scene, Where pleasure cheats the midnight pillow, A sigh shall breathe for noble Jane, Laid low beneath Kinrara's willow.
# The Book of Scottish Song/Queen Mary's Lament

Queen Mary’s Lament.
[These fine verses were written by Burns for Johnson's Museum, where they are adapted to a simple old air, called "Mary Queen of Scots' Lament."]
Now nature hangs her mantle green On ilka blooming tree, And spreads her sheets o' daisies white Out ower the grassy lea.
Now Phœbus cheers the crystal streams, And glads the azure skies, But nocht can glad the weary wicht, That fast in durance lies.
Now blooms the lily by the bank, The primrose doun the brae; The hawthorn's budding in the glen, And milk-white is the slae.
Now laverocks wake the merry morn, Aloft on dewy wing, The merle, in his noontide bower, Makes woodland echoes ring.
The mavis, mild wi' mony a note, Sings drowsy day to rest; In love and freedom they rejoice, Wi' care nor thrall opprest.
The meanest hind in fair Scotland May rove these sweets amang; But I, the queen o' a' Scotland, Maun lie in prison strang.
I was the queen o' bonnie France, Where happy I ha'e been; Fu' lightly rase I in the morn, As blythe lay down at e'en.
And I'm the sovereign of Scotland, And mony a traitor there, Yet here I lie in foreign bands, And never-ending care.
But as for thee, thou false woman My sister and my fae, Grim vengeance yet shall whet a sword, That through thy soul shall gae.
The weeping blood in woman's breast, Was never known to thee, Nor the balm that draps on wounds of woe, From woman's pitying e'e.
My son! my son! may kinder stars Upon thy fortune shine, And may those pleasures gild thy reign, That ne'er would blink on mine.
God keep thee frae thy mother's faes, Or turn their hearts to thee; And where thou meet'st thy mother's friend, Remember him for me.
Oh, soon to me may summer sun Nae mair licht up the morn! Nae mair, to me, the autumn winds Wave o'er the yellow corn.
And in the narrow house o' death Let winter round me rave, And the next flowers that deck the spring Bloom on my peaceful grave!
# The Book of Scottish Song/Raven's stream

Raven’s stream.
[Written by the late Daniel Weir to a Gaelic air, which is given in the sixth volume of Smith's Scottish Minstrel. Raven's stream is in the neighbourhood of Greenock.]
My love, come let us wander, Where Raven's streams meander, And where in simple grandeur, The daisy decks the plain. Peace and joy our hours shall measure; Come, oh come, my soul's best treasure! Then how sweet, and then how cheerie, Raven's braes will be, my dearie.
The silver moon is beaming, On Clyde her light is streaming, And, while the world is dreaming, We'll talk of love, my dear, None, my Jean, will share this bosom, Where thine image loves to blossom, And no storm will ever sever That dear flower, or part us ever.
# The Book of Scottish Song/Push about the Glass

Push about the Glass.
Comrades, push about the glass, An' mak' the cheerfu' ingle glow; Time, a rogue that ne'er knew grace, Will urge alike his steady pace, Whether we are blest or no.
Fill thritty bouts for ane o' his,
Toom ninety glasses for his three; For a' their saws and prattles, this The best and beaten road to bliss Wiser men have fund than we.
If you can be blest the day, Ne'er defer it till the morn: Peril still attends delay, As all fools will find, whan they Have their happie hour forborne. ​Comrades, fill your glass wi' me; Let us drink, and laugh, and sing: Whan ye merry are and ree, Fear not to drink out your glee; New delights the morn will bring.
# The Book of Scottish Song/Prestwick Drum

Prestwick Drum.
[Air, "Aiken Drum."—The original charter of Prestwick is now lost, but is referred to in the renewed grant by James VI. of Scotland. Bruce having at first been unsuccessful, after passing some time in exile, re-appeared in Arran, and crossing the Firth, landed on Prestwick shore, where the inhabitants joined his standard in considerable force; for which service, the king was pleased to erect their town into a barony, with a jurisdiction extending from the Water of Ayr to the Water of Irvine.]
At gloamin grey, the close o' day, When saftly sinks the village hum, Nor far nor near ought meets the ear, But aiblins Prestwick drum. Nae bluidy battle it betides, Nor sack, nor siege, nor ought besides, Twa gude sheep-skins, wi' oaken sides, An' leather lugs aroun'.
In days o' yore, when to our shore, For aid the gallant Bruce did come, His lieges leal did tak' the fiel', An' march to Prestwick drum. Gude service aften is forgot, An' favour won by crafty plot, An' sic, alas! has been the lot O' Prestwick's ancient drum.
# The Book of Scottish Song/Poor me

Poor me.
[John Mitchell.—Here first printed.]
When gowd's in the pocket there's mirth in the ha', And lightly the hours o'er our heads glide awa', The tongue tells its tales wi' the cantiest glee, And the lips wear a smile that's near seen on—"poor me!"
But when in the pocket the fingers in vain Attempt but ae coin o' our Queen's to obtain, How dowie we sit wi' the tear in our e'e, And sigh as we whisper in secret—"poor me!"
Our trade's gane awa' and my meal-pock is toom, And muckle I fear I'll ne'er fill't at the loom, Sae I to a far distant kintra maun flee; For, O! I am weary o' singing—"poor me!"
I ance dream't that fortune had feather'd my nest, But dreams are aye contrar', sae I maun just rest On what poortith likes in my cauld hame to lea', With whom I aft sing in sad chorus—"poor me!"
My coat is thread bare, and my cheeks ha'e grown thin, And drear is the path fate has doom'd me to rin, The vera wee birds, as I pass them, agree To sing but ae sang, and that sang is—"poor me!"
The flowers in their beauty will shed their perfume On a' that comes near them to gaze on their bloom, But do what I will, frae my presence men flee, They canna be fash'd wi' the lilt o'—"poor me!"
# The Book of Scottish Song/Red gleams the sun

Red gleams the sun.
[Dr. Couper.—Air, "Niel Gow."]
Red gleams the sun on yon hill tap, The dew sits on the gowan; Deep murmurs through her glens the Spey, Around Kinrara rowan. Where art thou, fairest, kindest lass? Alas! wert thou but near me, Thy gentle soul, thy melting eye, Would ever, ever cheer me.
The lav’rock sings amang the clouds, The lambs they sport so cheerie, And I sit weeping by the birk, O where art thou my dearie? Aft may I meet the morning dew Lang greet till I be weary, Thou canna, winna, gentle maid, Thou canna be my dearie.
# The Book of Scottish Song/Prince Charles Edward

Prince Charles Edward.
[David Vedder.—Arranged to a beautiful Gaelic air by Finlay Dun.]
Farewell to thee, Scotland, thy verdure is blighted, Thy daisies are steeped in the blood of the brave; And I, who thy wrongs with the sword would have righted, Am tossed like a fugitive serf on the wave! ​Impelled to the pursuit, by gold and by vengeance, My foemen are swift as the storm-driven rack; From the fierce brutal tribes they've selected their engines, The beagles and blood-hounds are scenting my tract.
Farewell to thee, Scotland, thy hills are receding, So beagles and blood-hounds can track as they may; But my heart to its centre is wounded and bleeding, For thousands who fell on Culloden's dark day. The hill-fox's howl, and the lone widow's wailings, Commingle at midnight, 'midst tempest and rain; And the red mountain-streamlets by smouldering shellings, Brawl hoarsely and fiercely the dirge of the slain.
The chieftains and heroes who followed my banner Are pining in dungeons, and bleaching on walls; Or, stripp'd of their all, saving conscience and honour, The grass growing rank on their hearths and their halls, Farewell to thee, Scotland, thy loftiest mountain Is fading and blending with ocean and sky, I groan—for my tears are dried up at the fountain— A wanderer I've lived, and an exile I'll die.