OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# The Complete Poems of Emily Brontë/Remembrance

IV
REMEMBRANCE
Cold in the earth—and the deep snow piled above thee, Far, far removed, cold in the dreary grave! Have I forgot, my only Love, to love thee, Severed at last by Time's all-severing wave?
Now, when alone, do my thoughts no longer hover Over the mountains, on that northern shore, Resting their wings where heath and fern-leaves cover Thy noble heart for ever, ever more?
Cold in the earth—and fifteen wild Decembers, From those brown hills, have melted into spring: Faithful, indeed, is the spirit that remembers After such years of change and suffering!
Sweet Love of youth, forgive, if I forget thee, While the world's tide is bearing me along; Other desires and other hopes beset me, Hopes which obscure, but cannot do thee wrong! ​No later light has lighten'd up my heaven, No second morn has ever shone for me; All my life's bliss from thy dear life was given, All my life's bliss is in the grave with thee.
But when the days of golden dreams had perished, And even Despair was powerless to destroy; Then did I learn how existence could be cherished, Strengthened, and fed without the aid of joy.
Then did I check the tears of useless passion— Weaned my young soul from yearning after thine; Sternly denied its burning wish to hasten Down to that tomb already more than mine.
And, even yet, I dare not let it languish, Dare not indulge in memory's rapturous pain; Once drinking deep of that divinest anguish, How could I seek the empty world again?
The date of this poem as given by Miss Robinson is March 1845.—Ed.
# The Complete Poems of Emily Brontë/Roderic

LIV
RODERIC
Lie down and rest, the fight is done, Thy comrades to the camp retire; Gaze not so earnestly upon The far gleam of the beacon fire.
O list not to the wind-born sounds, Of music and of soldiers' cheer; Thou canst not go—remember wounds Exhaust thy life and hold thee here.
Had that hand power to raise the sword Which since this morn laid many low; Had that tongue strength to speak the word, That urged thy followers on the foe;
Were that warm blood within thy veins Which now upon the earth is flowing, Splashing its sod with crimson stains, Redding the pale heath round thee growing;
Then Roderic, thou mightst still be turning With eager eye and anxious breast To where those signal lights are burning, To where thy war-worn comrades rest. ​But never more—look up and see The twilight fading from the skies, That last dim beam that sets for thee, Roderic, for thee shall never rise!
December 18, 1843.
# The Book of Scottish Song/There dwalt a man

There dwalt a man.
["I owe whatever is curious and humorous of this ancient song to the kindness of Sir Walter Scott, from whose recitation I wrote it. Whatever is new and dull must be attributed to me, since I ventured to alter the last lines of the second verse, and to add the third."—Allan Cunningham.]
There dwalt a man into the west, And O gin he was cruel, For on his bridal night at e'en He gat up and grat for gruel. They brought to him a gude sheep head, A napkin and a towel: Gar tak' thae whim-whams fer frae me, And bring to me my gruel.
But there's nae meal in a' the house, What will we do, my jewel? Get up the powk and shake it out, I winna want my gruel. But there's nae milk in a' the house, Nor yet a spunk o' fuel: Gae warm it in the light o' the moon, I winna want my gruel. ​O lake-a-day for my first wife, Wha was baith white and rosie, She cheer'd me aye at e'ening fa' Wi' something warm and cozie: Farewell to pleasant draps o' drink, To butter brose and gruel; And farewell to my first sweet wife, My cannie Nancy Newell.
# The Book of Scottish Song/There was a lass

There was a lass.
[This song, which is remarkable for its beauty and ballad-like simplicity. Burns wrote to the tune of "Bonnie Jean," and sent it to Thomson for his collection. Thomson inserted it, but adapted it to the tune of "Willie was a wanton wag." The heroine was Miss Jean Macmurdo (aftorwards Mrs. Crawford) eldest daughter of John Macmurdo, Esq. of Drumlanrig. "I have not painted her," says the poet, "in the rank which she holds in life, but in the dress and character of a cottager."]
There was a lass, and she was fair, At kurk and market to be seen, When a' the fairest maids were met, The fairest maid was bonnie Jean.
And aye she wrought her mammie's wark, And aye she sang sae merrilie: The blithest bird upon the bush Had ne'er a lighter heart than she.
But hawks will rob the tender joys That bless the little lintwhite's nest; And frost will blight the fairest flowers, And love will break the soundest rest.
Young Robie was the brawest lad, The flower and pride of a' the glen; And he had owsen, sheep, and kye, And wanton naigies nine or ten.
He gaed wi' Jeanie to the tryste, He danc'd wi' Jeanie on the down; And lang ere witless Jeanie wist, Her heart was tint, her peace was stown.
As in the bosom o' the stream. The moon-beam dwells at dewy e'en; So trembling, pure, was tender love, Within the breast o' bonnie Jean.
And now she works her mammie's wark, And aye she sighs wi' care and pain; Yet wist'na what her ail might be, Or what wad mak' her weel again.
But did na Jeanie's heart loup light, And did na joy blink in her e'e, As Robie tauld a tale o' love, Ae e'enin' on the lily lea?
The sun was sinking in the west, The birds sang sweet in ilka grove; His cheek to her's he fondly prest, And whisper'd thus his tale o' love:
O Jeanie fair, I lo'e thee dear; O canst thou think to fancy me! Or wilt thou leave thy mammie's cot, And learn to tent the farms wi' me?
At barn or byre thou shalt na drudge, Or naething else to trouble thee; But stray amang the heather-bells, And tent the waving corn wi' me.
Now what could artless Jeanie do? She had nae will to say him na: At length she blush'd a sweet consent, And love was aye between them twa.
# The Book of Scottish Song/There is a bonnie flower

There is a bonnie flower.
[Words and Music by Andrew Park.]
There is a bonnie blushing flower, But ah; I darena breathe the name! I fain would steal it frae its bower, Though a' should think me sair to blame. It smiles sae sweet amang the rest, Like brightest star where ithers shine; Fain would I place it in my breast, And make this bonnie blossom mine.
​At morn, at sunny noon, whene'er I see this fair, this favourite flower, My heart beats high, with wish sincere, To wile it frae its bonnie bower!— But oh! I fear to own its charms, Or tear it frae its parent stem, For should it wither in my arms, What would revive my bonnie gem!
Awa'—ye coward thoughts, awa',— That flower can never fade with me, That frae the wint'ry winds that blaw Round each neglected bud is free! No; it shall only bloom more fair, When cherish'd and ador'd by me, And a' my joy, and a' my care, This bonnie blushing flower shall be!
# The Book of Scottish Song/There lives a young lassie

There lives a young lassie.
[This song, so favourably known to the public through the singing of Mr. Templeton and other eminent vocalists, is the production of John Imlah. It first appeared, about fifteen years ago, in a collection of pieces by him, entitled, "May Flowers. Poems and Songs, some in the Scottish Dialect." The music is by Joseph de Pinna.]
There lives a young lassie Far down yon lang glen; How I lo'e that lassie There's nae ane can ken! O! a saint's faith may vary. But faithful I'll be; For weel I lo'e Mary, An' Mary lo'es me.
Red, red as the rowan Her smiling wee mou'; An' white as the gowan Her breast and her brow! Wi' a foot o' a fairy She links o'er the lea; O! weel I lo'e Mary, An' Mary lo'es me.
She sings sweet as onie Wee bird of the air, And she's blithe as she's bonnie. She's guid as she's fair; Like a lammie sae airy And artless is she, O! weel I lo'e Mary, And Mary lo'es me!
Where yon tall forest timmer, An' lowly broom bower, To the sunshine o' simmer Spread verdure an' flower; There, when night clouds the cary, Beside her I'll be; For weel I lo'e Mary, And Mary lo'es me.
# The Book of Scottish Song/This is no my ain house

This is no my ain house.
[The following is a Jacobite version of "This is no my ain house." Whether or not it is older than Ramsay's we cannot say.]
O, this is no my ain house, I ken by the biggin' o't; For bow-kail thrave at my door cheek, And thristles on the riggin' o't.
A carle came wi' lack o' grace, Wi' unco gear and unco face; And sin' he claim'd my daddie's place I downa bide the triggin' o't. O, this is no my ain house, &c.
Wi' routh o' kin, and routh o' reek, My daddie's door it wadna steek; But bread and cheese were his door cheek, And girdle-cakes the riggin' o't. O, this is no my ain house, &c.
My daddie bigg'd his housie weel, By dint o' head, and dint o' heel, By dint o' arm, and dint o' steel, And muckle weary priggin' o't. O, this is no my ain house, &c.
Then was it dink, or was it douce, For ony cringing foreign goose, To claught my daddie's wee bit house, And spoil the hamely triggin' o't? O, this is no my ain house, &c. ​Say, was it foul, or was it fair, To come a hunder mile and mair, For to ding out my daddie's heir, And dash him wi' the wiggin' o't? O, this is no my ain house, &c.
# The Book of Scottish Song/This is no my ain lassie

This is no my ain lassie.
[Written by Burns for Thomson's collection. This is generally sung to the tune of "Deil stick the minister."]
O this is no my ain lassie, Fair though the lassie be; O weel ken I my ain lassie, Kind love is in her e'e.
I see a form, I see a face, Ye weel may wi' the fairest place; It wants to me the witching grace, The kind love that's in her e'e. O this is no my ain lassie, &c.
She's bonnie, blooming, straight, and tall, And lang has had my heart in thrall; And aye it charms my vera saul, The kind love that's in her e'e. O this is no my ain lassie, &c.
A thief sae pawkie is my Jean; She'll steal a blink by a' unseen; But gleg as light are lover's een, When kind love is in the e'e. O this is no my ain lassie, &c.
It may escape the courtly sparks, It may escape the learned clarks; But weel the watching lover marks The kind love that's in her e'e. O this is no my ain lassie, &c.
# The Book of Scottish Song/They're a' teasing me 1

They’re a’ teasing me.
[Written and arranged by W. Kirby.]
O wha is he I love sae well? Who has my heart an' a', O wha is he, 'tis sair to tell, He's o'er the seas awa'. There's Charlie, he's a sodger lad, And Davie blythe is he; And Willie in his tartan plaid, They're a' a' teasing me. O they're a' tease teasing, They're a' a' teasing me; They're a' tease teasing, O they're a' a' teasing me.
There's Carl the chief o' Daftne glen, And he has land in store, With flow'ry mead and shady fen, And siller o'er and o'er: Quoth he, sweet lass, I'll marry thee, (Yestreen in yonder shaw;) And thou my ain sweet bride shall be And Queen o' Daftne ha'! O they're a' tease teasing, &c.
But when my Jamie comes again, Young Carl will then descry, That siller is but empty gain, To hearts no gowd can buy. My Jamie's brave, my Jamie's braw, My Jamie's a' to me, And tho' his siller store be sma', Yet married we will be. For they're a' tease teasing, &c.
# The Book of Scottish Song/They're a' teasing me 2

They’re a’ teasing me.
[Words by Kirby.—Music by Latour.]
O wha is he I lo'e sae weel? Wha has my heart an' a'? O wha is he? 'tis sair to tell— He's o'er the seas awa'. There's Charlie, he's a sodger lad, And, Davie, blythe is he, And Willie, in his tartan plaid, They're a' a' teasing me. O they're a' tease teasing. They're a' a' teasing me, They're a' tease teasing, O they're a' a' teasing me.
There's Carl, the chief o' Daftne glen, And he has land and store, With flowery mead, and shady fen, And siller o'er and o'er. Quoth he, sweet lass, I'll marry thee, (Yestreen in yonder shaw,) And thou my ain true bride shall be, And queen o' Daftne ha'. O they're a', &c.
But when my Jamie comes again, Young Carl will then descry That siller is but empty gain, To hearts no gowd can buy. My Jamie's brave, my Jamie's braw, My Jamie's a' to me, And though his siller store be sma', Yet married we will be. For they're a', &c.
# The Book of Scottish Song/This is no mine ain house

This is no mine ain house.
[The following song is by Ramsay, but there existed a ditty long before his day which runs somewhat thus:
"This is no my ain house, My ain house, my ain house, This is no my ain house, I ken by the biggin' o't. For bread and cheese are my door cheeks, Are my door cheeks, are my door cheeks, For bread and cheese are my door cheeks, And pancakes the riggin' o't."
"This is no my ain house" is often sung, not to its own original tune, but to another old tune called "Deil stick the minister," or "Shantrews."]
This is no mine ain house, I ken by the rigging o't; Since with my love I've changed vows, I dinna like the bigging o't. For now that I'm young Robbie's bride, And mistress of his fire-side, Mine ain house I'll like to guide, And please me with the rigging o't.
Then fareweel to my father's house, I gang whare love invites me; The strictest duty this allows, When love with honour meets me. When Hymen moulds us into ane, My Robbie's nearer than my kin, And to refuse him were a sin, Sae lang's he kindly treats me.
When I'm in my ain house, True love shall be at hand aye, To make me still a prudent spouse, And let my man command aye; Avoiding ilka cause of strife, The common pest of married life That mak's ane wearied of his wife, And breaks the kindly band aye.
# The Complete Poems of Paul Laurence Dunbar/The Dove

THE DOVE
Out of the sunshine and out of the heat, Out of the dust of the grimy street, A song fluttered down in the form of a dove, And it bore me a message, the one word—Love!
Ah, I was toiling, and oh, I was sad: I had forgotten the way to be glad. Now, smiles for my sadness and for my toil, rest Since the dove fluttered down to its home in my breast!
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
# The Complete Poems of Paul Laurence Dunbar/The Dreamer

THE DREAMER
Temples he built and palaces of air,  And, with the artist's parent-pride aglow,  His fancy saw his vague ideals grow Into creations marvellously fair;
He set his foot upon Fame's nether stair.  But ah, his dream,—it had entranced him so  He could not move. He could no farther go; But paused in joy that he was even there!
He did not wake until one day there gleamed  Thro' his dark consciousness a light that racked His being till he rose, alert to act. But lo! what he had dreamed, the while he dreamed,  Another, wedding action unto thought,  Into the living, pulsing world had brought.
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
# The Complete Poems of Paul Laurence Dunbar/The End Of The Chapter

THE END OF THE CHAPTER
Ah, yes, the chapter ends to-day; We even lay the book away; But oh, how sweet the moments sped Before the final page was read!
We tried to read between the lines The Author's deep-concealed designs; But scant reward such search secures; You saw my heart and I saw yours.
The Master,—He who penned the page And bade us read it,—He is sage: And what he orders, you and I Can but obey, nor question why.
We read together and forgot The world about us. Time was not. Unheeded and unfelt, it fled. We read and hardly knew we read.
Until beneath a sadder sun, We came to know the book was done. Then, as our minds were but new lit, It dawned upon us what was writ;
And we were startled. In our eyes, Looked forth the light of great surprise. Then as a deep-toned tocsin tolls, A voice spoke forth: "Behold your souls!"
I do, I do. I cannot look Into your eyes: so close the book. But brought it grief or brought it bliss, No other page shall read like this!
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
# The Complete Poems of Paul Laurence Dunbar/The Fisher Child's Lullaby

THE FISHER CHILD'S LULLABY
The wind is out in its rage to-night,  And your father is far at sea. The rime on the window is hard and white  But dear, you are near to me.  Heave ho, weave low,  Waves of the briny deep;  Seethe low and breathe low,  But sleep you, my little one, sleep, sleep.
The little boat rocks in the cove no more,  But the flying sea-gulls wail; I peer through the darkness that wraps the shore,  For sight of a home set sail.  Heave ho, weave low,  Waves of the briny deep;  Seethe low and breathe low,  But sleep you, my little one, sleep, sleep.
Ay, lad of mine, thy father may die  In the gale that rides the sea, But we'll not believe it, not you and I,  Who mind us of Galilee.  Heave ho, weave low,  Waves of the briny deep;  Seethe low and breathe low,  But sleep you, my little one, sleep, sleep.
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
# The Complete Poems of Paul Laurence Dunbar/The Farm Child's Lullaby

THE FARM CHILD'S LULLABY
Oh, the little bird is rocking in the cradle of the wind,  And it's bye, my little wee one, bye; The harvest all is gathered and the pippins all are binned;  Bye, my little wee one, bye; The little rabbit's hiding in the golden shock of corn, The thrifty squirrel's laughing bunny's idleness to scorn; You are smiling with the angels in your slumber, smile till morn;  So it's bye, my little wee one, bye.
There'll be plenty in the cellar, there'll be plenty on the shelf;  Bye, my little wee one, bye; There'll be goodly store of sweetings for a dainty little elf;  Bye, my little wee one, bye. The snow may be a-flying o'er the meadow and the hill, The ice has checked the chatter of the little laughing rill, But in your cosey cradle you are warm and happy still;  So bye, my little wee one, bye.
Why, the Bob White thinks the snowflake is a brother to his song;  Bye, my little wee one, bye; And the chimney sings the sweeter when the wind is blowing strong;  Bye, my little wee one, bye; The granary's overflowing, full is cellar, crib, and bin, The wood has paid its tribute and the ax has ceased its din; The winter may not harm you when you're sheltered safe within;  So bye, my little wee one, bye.
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
# The Complete Poems of Paul Laurence Dunbar/The Dilettante: A Modern Type

THE DILETTANTE: A MODERN TYPE
He scribbles some in prose and verse,  And now and then he prints it; He paints a little,—gathers some  Of Nature's gold and mints it.
He plays a little, sings a song,  Acts tragic roles, or funny; He does, because his love is strong,  But not, oh, not for money!
He studies almost everything  From social art to science; A thirsty mind, a flowing spring,  Demand and swift compliance.
He looms above the sordid crowd—  At least through friendly lenses; While his mamma looks pleased and proud,  And kindly pays expenses.
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
# The Complete Poems of Paul Laurence Dunbar/The Discovery

THE DISCOVERY
These are the days of elfs and fays: Who says that with the dreams of myth, These imps and elves disport themselves? Ah no, along the paths of song Do all the tiny folk belong.
Round all our homes, Kobolds and gnomes do daily cling, Then nightly fling their lanterns out. And shout on shout, they join the rout, And sing, and sing, within the sweet enchanted ring.
Where gleamed the guile of moonlight's smile, Once paused I, listening for a while, And heard the lay, unknown by day,— The fairies' dancing roundelay.
Queen Mab was there, her shimmering hair Each fairy prince's heart's despair. She smiled to see their sparkling glee, And once I ween, she smiled at me.
Since when, you may by night or day, Dispute the sway of elf-folk gay; But, hear me, stay! I've learned the way to find Queen  Mab and elf and fay.
Where e'er by streams, the moonlight gleams, Or on a meadow softly beams, There, footing round on dew-lit ground, The fairy folk may all be found.
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
# The Complete Poems of Paul Laurence Dunbar/The Disturber

THE DISTURBER Oh, what shall I do? I am wholly upset; I am sure I 'll be jailed for a lunatic yet. I 'll be out of a job—it's the thing to expect When I 'm letting my duty go by with neglect. You may judge the extent and degree of my plight When I 'm thinking all day and a-dreaming all night, And a-trying my hand at a rhyme on the sly, All on account of a sparkling eye.
There are those who say men should be strong, well-a-day! But what constitutes strength in a man? Who shall say? I am strong as the most when it comes to the arm. I have aye held my own on the playground or farm. And when I 've been tempted, I haven't been weak; But now—why, I tremble to hear a maid speak. I used to be bold, but now I 've grown shy, And all on account of a sparkling eye.
There once was a time when my heart was devout, But now my religion is open to doubt. When parson is earnestly preaching of grace, My fancy is busy with drawing a face, Thro' the back of a bonnet most piously plain; 'I draw it, redraw it, and draw it again.' While the songs and the sermon unheeded go by,— All on account of a sparkling eye.
Oh, dear little conjurer, give o'er your wiles, It is easy for you, you're all blushes and smiles: But, love of my heart, I am sorely perplexed; I am smiling one minute and sighing the next; And if it goes on, I 'll drop hackle and flail, And go to the parson and tell him my tale. I warrant he 'll find me a cure for the sigh That you 're aye bringing forth with the glance of your eye.
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
# The Complete Poems of Paul Laurence Dunbar/The Fount Of Tears

THE FOUNT OF TEARS
All hot and grimy from the road,  Dust gray from arduous years, I sat me down and eased my load  Beside the Fount of Tears.
The waters sparkled to my eye,  Calm, crystal-like, and cool, And breathing there a restful sigh,  I bent me to the pool.
When, lo! a voice cried: "Pilgrim, rise,  Harsh tho' the sentence be, And on to other lands and skies—  This fount is not for thee.
"Pass on, but calm thy needless fears,  Some may not love or sin, An angel guards the Fount of Tears;  All may not bathe therein."
Then with my burden on my back  I turned to gaze awhile, First at the uninviting track,  Then at the water's smile.
And so I go upon my way,  Thro'out the sultry years, But pause no more, by night, by day,  Beside the Fount of Tears.
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
# The Complete Poems of Francis Ledwidge/Songs of the Fields/The Wife of Llew

THE WIFE OF LLEW
And Gwydion said to Math, when it was Spring: "Come now and let us make a wife for Llew." And so they broke broad boughs yet moist with dew, And in a shadow made a magic ring: They took the violet and the meadow-sweet To form her pretty face, and for her feet They built a mound of daisies on a wing, And for her voice they made a linnet sing In the wide poppy blowing for her mouth. And over all they chanted twenty hours. And Llew came singing from the azure south And bore away his wife of birds and flowers.