OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Poems of the Great War/Pro Patria

PRO PATRIA
ENGLAND, in this great fight to which you go  Because, where Honour calls you, go you must, Be glad, whatever comes, at least to know  You have your quarrel just.
Peace was your care; before the nations' bar  Her cause you pleaded and her ends you sought; But not for her sake, being what you are,  Could you be bribed and bought.
Others may spurn the pledge of land to land,  May with the brute sword stain a gallant past; But by the seal to which you set your hand,  Thank God, you still stand fast!
Forth, then, to front that peril of the deep  With smiling lips and in your eyes the light, Stedfast and confident, of those who keep  Their storied scutcheon bright.
And we, whose burden is to watch and wait—  High-hearted ever, strong in faith and prayer, We ask what offering we may consecrate,  What humble service share.
To steel our souls against the lust of ease;  To find our welfare in the general good; To hold together, merging all degrees  In one wide brotherhood;—
To teach that he who saves himself is lost;  To bear in silence though our hearts may bleed; To spend ourselves, and never count the cost,  For others' greater need;—
To go our quiet ways, subdued and sane;  To hush all vulgar clamour of the street; With level calm to face alike the strain  Of triumph or defeat;—
This be our part, for so we serve you best,  So best confirm their prowess and their pride, Your warriors sons, to whom in this high test  Our fortunes we confide.
OWEN SEAMAN
# Poems of the Great War/The Vigil

THE VIGIL
ENGLAND! where the sacred flame
Burns before the inmost shrine,
Where the lips that love thy name
 Consecrate their hopes and thine,
Where the banners of thy dead
Weave their shadows overhead,
Watch beside thine arms to-night,
Pray that God defend the Right.
Think that when to-morrow comes
 War shall claim command of all,
Thou must hear the roll of drums,
 Thou must hear the trumpet's call.
Now before they silence ruth,
Commune with the voice of truth;
England! on thy knees to-night
Pray that God defend the Right.
Single-hearted, unafraid,
 Hither all thy heroes came,
On this altar's steps were laid
 Gordon's life and Outram's fame.
England! if thy will be yet By their great example set, Here beside thine arms to-night Pray that God defend the Right.
So shalt thou when morning comes  Rise to conquer or to fall, Joyful hear the rolling drums,  Joyful hear the trumpet's call. Then let memory tell thy heart; "England! what thou wert, thou art!" Gird thee with thine ancient night, Forth! and God defend the Right!
HENRY NEWBOLT
# Poems of the Great War/United Front

THE UNITED FRONT
I.
THUS only should it come, if come it must; Not with a riot of flags or a mob-born cry,  But with a noble faith, a conscience high And pure and proud as heaven, wherein we trust, We who have fought for peace, have dared the thrust  Of calumny for peace, and watched here die,  Her scutcheons rent from sky to outraged sky By felon hands, and trampled into the dust.
We fought for peace, and we have seen the law  Cancelled, not once, nor twice, by felon hands,  But shattered, again, again, and yet again. We fought for peace. Now, in God's name, we draw  The sword, not with a riot of flags and bands,  But silence, and a mustering of men.
II.
They challenge Truth. An Empire makes reply.  One faith, one flag, one honour, and one might.  From sea to sea, from height to war-worn height, The old word rings out—to conquer, or to die.
And we shall conquer. Though their eagles fly  Through heaven, around this ancient isle unite  Powers that were never vanquished in the fight, The unconquerable Powers that cannot lie.
But they who challenge Truth, Law, Justice, all  The bases on which God and man stand sure  Throughout all ages, fools!—they thought us torn So far with discord that the blow might fall  Unanswered; and, while those Powers endure,  This is our answer: Unity and Scorn.
III.
We trust not in the multitude of an host.  Nations that greatly builded, greatly stand.  In those dark hours, the Splendour of a Hand Has moved behind the darkness, till that coast Where hate and faction seemed to triumph most  Reveals itself—a buckler and a brand,  Our rough-hewn work, shining o'er sea and land, But shaped to nobler ends than man could boast.
It is God's answer. Though, for many a year,  This land forgot the faith that made her great,  Now, as her fleets cast off the North Sea foam, Casting aside all faction and all fear,  Thrice-armed in all the majesty of her fate,  Britain remembers, and her sword stikes home.
ALFRED NOYES
# Poems of the Great War/Hymn in War Time

"YATTENDON HYMNAL NO. 54"
Tune: Tallis's "Canon," original setting.
REJOICE, O land, in God thy might. His will obey, Him serve aright. For thee the saints uplift their voice. Fear not, O land, in God rejoice.
Glad shalt thou be, with blessing crown'd. With joy and peace thou shalt abound. Yea, love with thee shall make his home, Until thou see God's kingdom come.
He shall forgive thy sins untold. Remember thou His love of old. Walk in His way, His word above, And keep His truth for evermore.
ROBERT BRIDGES, Poet Laureate
# Poems of the Great War/The Man who Keeps his Head

THE MAN WHO KEEPS HIS HEAD
THERE'S a man who fights for England, and
 he'll keep her still atop, He will guard her from dishonour in the market  and the shop, He will save her homes from terror on the fields of
 Daily Bread, He's the man who sticks to business, he's the man  who keeps his head.
Let the foe who strikes at England hear her wheels  of commerce turn, Let the ships that war with England see her factory  furnace burn; For the foe most fears the cannon, and his heart  most quails with dread When behind the man in khaki is the man who  keeps his head.
Brand him traitor and assassin who with miser's
 coward mood Has his gold locked up in secret and his larders  stored with food,
Who has cast adrift his workers, who lies sweating  in his bed, And who snarls to hear the laughter of the man  Who keeps his head.
Let the poor man teach the rich man, for the poor
 man's constant strife Is from day to day to seek work, day by day to war  with life, And the poor man's home hangs ever by a frail and  brittle thread, And the poor man's often hungry, but the poor  man keeps his head.
When the ships come back from slaughter, and the  troops march home from war; When the havoc strewn behind us threats the road  that lies before, Every hero shall be welcomed, every orphan shall  be fed, By the man who stuck to business, by the man who  kept his head.
HAROLD BEGBIE
# Poems of the Great War/The Wife of Flanders

THE WIFE OF FLANDERS
LOW and brown barns, thatched and repatched  and tattered, Where I had seven sons until to-day— A little hill of hay your spur has scattered. . . This is not Paris. You have lost the way.
You, staring at your sword to find it brittle, Surprised at the surprise that was your plan, Who shaking and breaking barriers not a little, Find never more the death-door of Sedan.
Must I for more than carnage call you claimant, Paying you a penny for each son you slay? Man, the whole globe in gold were no repayment For what you have lost. And how shall I repay?
What is the price of that red spark that caught me From a kind farm that never had a name? What is the price of that dead man they brought me? For other dead men do not look the same.
How should I pay for one poor graven steeple
Whereon you shattered what you shall not know?
How should I pay you, miserable people,
How should I pay you everything you owe?
Unhappy, can I give you back your honour?
Though I forgave, would any man forget?
While all the great green land has trampled on her
The treason and terror of the night we met.
Not any more in vengeance or in pardon,
One old wife bargains for a bean that's hers.
You have no word to break: no heart to harden.
Ride on and prosper. You have lost your spurs.
G. K. CHESTERTON
# Poems of the Great War/To England: To Strike Quickly

TO ENGLAND: TO STRIKE QUICKLY
FIGHT, since thou must; strike quick and fierce,  So when this tyrant for too long Hath shook the blood out of his ears  He may have learned the price of wrong.
Let him learn this, that the due of grief  Of his own vice he cannot ban By outrage of a highway thief;  Let him remember the Corsican,
Whom England only durst not dread  By sea or shore, but faced alone, Nor stayed for pity of her dead  Until the despot's day was done.
Strike, England, quickly, make an end  Of him who seeks a deal with thee. If he would bargain for thy friend,  What would he trade for Liberty?
MAURICE HEWLETT
# Popular Science Monthly/Volume 15/June 1879/Correspondence

Layout 4
A CORRECTION
To the Editors of the Popular Science Monthly.
IN your February number, the article on "The Old Phrenology and the New," by Dr. Andrew Wilson, struck me as having been conceived not only with some degree of prejudice, but a lack of sufficient care in reference to facts. I will refer you to one case which relates to Mr. Gage, who had an iron bar driven through his brain by a blasting accident. Dr. Wilson conveys the idea that his mental faculties were unaffected by this most extraordinary injury and loss of brain. Dr. J. M. Harlow, now of Woburn, Massachusetts, had charge of the case, and followed with great care the wanderings of this young man, after he recovered from his injury; and after his death, which occurred in California, twelve years after the accident, he was able to get the cranium and the iron bar that passed through it, and presented them, with a detailed account of the case, to the Massachusetts Medical Society; and they are now in the Museum of Harvard College. In this paper Dr. Harlow says, in reference to the changed condition of the mental faculties: "His physical health is good, and I am inclined to say he has recovered. Has no pain in head, but says it has a queer feeling which he is not able to describe. Applied for his situation as foreman, but is undecided whether to work or travel. His contractors, who regarded him as the most efficient and capable foreman in their employ previous to his injury, considered the change in his mind so marked that they could not give him his place again. The equilibrium or balance, so to speak, between his intellectual faculties and animal propensities seems to have been destroyed. He is fitful, irreverent, indulging at times in the grossest profanity (which was not previously his custom), manifesting but little deference for his fellows, impatient of restraint or advice when it conflicts with his desires, at times pertinaciously obstinate, yet capricious and vacillating, devising many plans of future operations, which are no sooner arranged than they are abandoned in turn for others appearing more feasible. A child in his intellectual capacity and manifestations, he has the animal passions of a strong man. Previous to his injury, though untrained in the schools, he possessed a well-balanced mind, and was looked upon by those who knew him as a shrewd, smart business man, very energetic and persistent in executing all his plans of operation. In this regard his mind was radically changed, so decided that his friends and acquaintances said he was ‘no longer Gage.’"
In this case of injury of the brain and recovery, unparalleled, and of world-wide interest, I deem it proper that the error in reference to the condition of the intellectual faculties should be corrected through your periodical.Truly,
John Clough.
Woburn, Massachusetts, March 31, 1879.
# Popular Science Monthly/Volume 57

Scans
Layout 4
# Poets of John Company/Song on the Battle of Assaye

Song at an Anniversary Dinner in celebration of the Battle of Assaye.
As Britannia, elate was triumphantly viewing The deeds of her sons in the bright page of Fame, And Memory's magic each joy was renewing, As she paus'd on the glories of Wellington's name;
To far distant scenes her proud fancy had stray'd. Where her hero so often victorious had been. When sudden a Maid, in splendour array'd. Like a vision of rapture illumined the scene:
'Twas the Genius of Asia, fair land of the Sun— "To me," She exclaim'd, "you your Wellington owe: "'Neath my fostering clime his proud race he begun, "And matur'd was his fame by its cherishing glow:
"In the morn of his life all resplendent he rose, "Like the sun which illumines my region's clear sky: "Dispers'd are his foes, and victory throws "Unperishing rays o'er the field of Assaye.
"But think not, Britannia! thy children alone "Have my kingdoms subdued, and my subjects laid low; "By my own turban'd sons the proud deed has been done, "I myself," said the Maid, "have inflicted the blow.
"To anarchy's horrors my realms were a prey, "When first on my shores thou thy banners unfurl'd; "I welcom'd thy sway—'twas the morn of a day "Bringing freedom, and knowledge, to light a dark world.
"Oh, Britannia!" she said, as all radiant she shone, Her countenance beaming with beauty divine, "O'er the hearts of my people establish thy throne; "In one wreath let the laurel and lotus entwine.
"Once the Star of the East shed its lustre afar, "And again o'er the earth shall its glories be spread, "While my sons round thy car, the foremost in war, "Rise to fame, by such heroes as Wellington led."
# Poets of John Company/The Art of Living in India

ANONYMOUS.
1800.
The Art of Living in India.
No more shall tragic stories fill our rhymes Come turn and look at life in softer climes; In Eastern India's realm pursue the route, Where passions burn within, and Suns without. Calcutta, lo! as London o'er the Thames, Lifts her high head above old Hougly's streams: There, Novice, fix your residence, and try To scan the passing scene with curious eye; The motley mass of various life discern. And put in practice quickly what you learn. First, if you mean to gain a due respect, (And what so terrible as cold neglect!) Let eight trim bearers uniformly dress'd Attend your palanquin of modern taste; Fly at a call, and bring you here and there To laugh and chatter—God knows what or where, In vulgar eyes a palanquin has charms. But on the shining sides emblaze your arms, This elegant convenience first procure, Before you thrust your nose without the door. Let a long train, obsequious at a call. Attend in order round your spacious hall; At breakfast seated, let the shining plate, Arrang'd with splendour, indicate your state; For taste superior, gracious Heaven invoke. And learn that fashionable art—to smoke! The breakfast ended, on a couch reclin'd. The grateful hookah will relax the mind; 'Tis then the crouching slaves our orders take. Before they know what we're about to speak: But if some low born creditor should come. Be sure give orders then, you're not at home.
In 'kill time visits' pass away the noon, And 'chit chat parties' never leave too soon; Hear how they talk of politics, and how The news of the confederate armies go; Or rather with the laughing Ladies play. And spend in fiddle faddle half the day. Since now you bask in Fortune's sunny ray. Give, give, your rolling gold to live the day. Not like the griping set who save and spare To perish wretched in cold northern air. When'er your easy mistress goes abroad, Then let the pomp of Flavius fill the road; Let six chubdars your silver sticks display, And shading punkas mitigate the day; Let emeralds set, her slender wrists enfold, And all her purfled vestments shine with gold: Let her, ah! let her thus genteely ride, While, as she comes, we starers sneak aside. When she's at home (how dear the thoughts of home) Keep her secluded in a separate dome Conscious to love and the soft hours of joy. Let her mid fragrant oils the noon employ; Let her there, wrapp'd in robes of costly lawn. Enjoy the sweets of aromatic pawn. While servile daees, in flowing cloth array'd. By turns attend, and fan your charming maid. Yes, yes, ye Gods, sure such is earthly bliss. What would I give to be the Lord of this!
Ye shapely Nymphs, who form my pleasing theme Ye, born where Ganga rolls her hallow'd stream. Accept these numbers, written with spirit free, I love your India and your India me! Thus I've selected, with a judgment nice, Instructive lessons of oblique advice; Be your attention to the Muse inclin'd, And print them on the tablet of your mind.
# Poets of John Company/The Battle of Assaye

The Battle of Assaye.
Written in 1803.
Shout, Britons, for the battle of Assaye! For that was a day When we stood in our array. Like the lion's might at bay. And our battle-word was "Conquer or die."
Rouse! rouse the cruel leopard from his lair. With his yell the mountain rings, And his red eye round he flings, As arrow-like he springs, And spreads his clutching paw to rend and tear.
Then first array'd in battle-front we saw, Far as the eye could glance. The Mahratta banners dance O'er the desolate expanse; And their standard was the leopard of Malwa.
But, when we first encounter'd man to man, Such odds came never on. Against Greece or Macedon, When they shook the Persian throne Mid the old barbaric pomp of Ispahan.
No number'd might of living men could tame Our gallant band, that broke Through the bursting clouds of smoke, When the vollied thunder spoke From a thousand smouldering mouths of lurid flame.
Hail Wellesley! who led'st the martial fray! Amid the locust swarm, Dark fate was in thine arm; And his shadow shall alarm The Mahratta when he hears thy name for aye.
Ah! mark these British corses on the plain! Each vanish'd like a star Mid the dreadful ranks of war. While their foemen stood afar. And gaz'd with silent terror at the slain.
Shout Britons, for the battle of Assaye! Ye who perish'd in your prime, Your hallow'd names sublime Shall live to endless time. For heroic worth and fame shall never die.
# Poets of John Company/The Chee-Chee Ball

WILLIAM HENRY ABBOTT.
1820–1869.
The Chee-Chee Ball.
The Chee-Chees held high festival in old Domingo's Hall, And I was there, tho' I was not invited to the ball; But they receiv'd me kindly, all owing, as I trust. To my appearance proving me one of the "upper crust."
And merrily I pass'd the time, although 'twas somewhat slow— I danced like mad each polka, with lots of heel and toe: For Chee-Chees think that polkas are very like Scotch reels. And that to dance them properly you must kick up your heels.
And there was one, a petite belle, a modest little girl. Her hair was twisted down her cheeks in many a spiral curl; Her teeth were polish'd ivory, her eyes were very bright. And the little thing look'd blacker from being dress'd in white.
And ever as I saw this girl, I mark'd a little man Whom lovingly she ogled behind her pretty fan: They always danced together, or, as far as I could see. When they couldn't dance together they stood up vis-a-vis.
Now while the supper disappear'd, I sought for fresher air, My nose 'mid Kentish hop-grounds rear'd is not the nose to bear The scent of oil of cocoanut with that of bad perfume. And the odour of hot dishes in a densely crowded room.
And while I stroll'd alone outside I started at the sound Of whispering voices near me—I turn'd and gazed around; Yes, there they were, that happy pair, their steps they slowly traced. Her arm was on his shoulder, and his was round her waist;
And, wandering by thus lovingly, their words fell on my ear,— For he had slightly raised his voice, not thinking I was near, And the very moon look'd clearer, and brighter shone each star,— As the little man imploringly said—"Betsy, bolo hah!"
I turn'd and quickly left the spot, I did not like to stay, To be, as I must else have been, in those two lovers' way; (To spoil such sport has ever been from my intention far) And as I walk'd away I heard her gently murmur "Hah."
# Poets of John Company/The Bumper of Claret

HENRY TORRENS.
1806-1852.
The Bumper of Claret.
Now for the hour that is sweetest of all, Sirs, 'Tis sacred to mirth, to good humour, and wine, Fairer than any that lazily crawl, Sirs, Thro' dullardized space in the garish sunshine; Haste then, and let not an instant be wasted, For fleetly flies Time, and we can but ill spare it,— To do it due honour or ever 'tis past yet. Baptise its arrival in bumpers of Claret.
Then here's to the being still free and light-hearted, Who ne'er cares o'er the woes of this world to repine. But tho' he and false Fortune be long ago parted. Still moistens his woes with a bumper of wine.
Soother of care and promoter of revels, What'er be your ills, Claret ne'er comes amiss; Take my receipt and the grimmest blue devils Will beam like Hope's self, if ye plunge them in this; Not the cheek of a beauty who saints might beguile. Sirs,
Her form nor her face, I can freely declare it Could look now half so sweet in my eyes, as the smile. Sirs, That dimples the cheek of my bumper of Claret.
I once heard a tale—from my Grannie I took it, Sirs,
How the great globe was erst covered with rain, When all our poor dads, like blind pups in a bucket, Sirs, Sank, and, as she said, ne'er came up again; Ever since that, in respect to their memory, Water I've hated—O Lord I can't bear it! And I'm never myself after mentioning them, ere I Wash out the thought with a bumper of Claret.
There was once an old sage—'twas some d—d fool or other—how 'Tis I don't know, on his name I can't fix— But he wrote nine huge folios and tried to discover how Solids and fluids most properly mix — I've found out the secret so long from his view hid, I found it—and let every friend I have share it,— The properest mixture of solid and fluid. Is a dinner like this one well washed down with Claret.
Then here's to the being still free and light-hearted, Who ne'er cares o'er the woes of this world to repine, But tho' he and false Fortune be long ago parted, Still moistens his woes with a bumper of wine.