OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# The Botany of the Antarctic Voyage/Part I/Halorageae

VIII. HALORAGEÆ, Br.
1. Callitriche verna, L. DeC. Prodr. vol. iii. p. 70. D'Urv. Fl. Ins. Mal. in Mem. Soc. Linn. Par. vol. iv. p. 620. Gaud, in Freyc. Voy. Bot. p. 138.
Var. β. terrestris; caulibus brevissimis repentibus, foliis approximatis carnosis.
Hab. Lord Auckland's group and Campbell's Island; common on the ground and on wet rocks near the sea. β. On the ground by the margins of pools, Campbell's Island.
A very general plant throughout the Antarctic Islands visited by the "Erebus and Terror." First noticed as a native of the Falkland Islands by Admiral D'Urville, who, in his description of the plant, which is not uncommon there, and is identical with the var. β. of Campbell's Island, alludes to the filament and ovarium as each arising from a minute bipartite calyx. Neither in my dried specimens, nor when in a fresh state, could I detect organs answering to this description. The bracteas, which are extremely caducous, and only exist in the very youngest state of the flower, are singularly falcate, linear-subulate and membranaceous, similar to those of C. platycarpa, Kützing. The leaves vary much in shape, and the whole plant in size, as in Europe. The anthers, ​(though described as one-celled) are in reality didymous and 2-celled; they first open down each side and then across the connectivum at the top, always remaining partially 2-celled. Filaments often very long, half an inch and upwards. The styles are also slender, and when highly magnified exhibit throughout their length minute papillæ. Ovary (or female flower) 2–4-celled, pedicellate. The flowers are generally solitary; the males in the axils of the upper, and the females in those of the lower leaves, with a small abortive leaf-bud in the opposite axil.
# The Book of Scottish Song/Willie Winkie's Testament

Willie Winkie’s Testament.
[This curious old inventory of goods and chattels appears, with the above title, in Thomson's Orpheus Caledonius, 1725, but it is not given by Ramsay in his Tea-Table Miscellany.]
My daddy left me gear enough: A couter, and an auld beam-plough, A nebbed staff, a nutting-tyne, A fishing-wand with hook and line; With twa auld stools, and a dirt-house, A jerkenet, scarce worth a louse, An auld pat, that wants the lug, A spurtle and a sowen mug.
A hempen heckle, and a mell, A tar-horn, and a weather's bell, A muck-fork, and an auld peak-creel, The spakes of our auld spinning-wheel; A pair of branks, yea, and a saddle, With our auld brunt and broken laddle, A whang-bit, and a sniffle-bit: Cheer up, my bairns, and dance a fit.
A flailing-staff, a timmer-spit, An auld kirn and a hole in it, Yarn-winnles, and a reel, A fetter-lock, a trump of steel, A whistle, and a tup-horn spoon, Wi' an auld pair o' clouted shoon, A timmer spade, and a gleg shear, A bonnet for my bairns to wear.
A timmer tongs, a broken cradle, The pinion of an auld car-saddle, A gullie-knife, and a horse-wand, A mitten for the left hand, With an auld broken pan of brass, With an auld hyeuk for cutting grass, An auld band, and a hoodling-how, I hope, my bairns, ye're a' weel now.
Aft have I borne ye on my back, With a' this riff-raff in my pack; And it was a' for want of gear, That part me steal Mess John's grey mare: But now, my bairns, what ails ye now, For ye ha'e naigs enough to plow; And hose and shoon fit for your feet, Cheer up, my bairns, and dinna greet.
Then with mysel' I did advise, My daddie's gear for to comprise; Some neighbours I ca'd in to see What gear my daddy left to me. They sat three-quarters of a year, Comprising of my daddy's gear; And when they had gi'en a' their votes, 'Twas scarcely a' worth four pounds Scots.
# The Book of Scottish Song/Willie Waggletail

Willie Waggletail.
[Kilpatrick.—Air, "Lassie wi' the lint-white locks."]
Queer Willie Waggletail, The auld farrant donnart body, He fed me aye on lang kail, Soups o' broo, and draps o' crowdie; Cream scones three times a-year; Whey to cool the bluid in simmer; British wine the saul to cheer, Wi swats that reamed aboon the timmer.
Though Willie Wagglelail's awa', His gear'll mak' me blythe and bonnie: Come ower the burn, sweet Johnnie Faa; For wha has cheeks sae red as Johnnie? Come to my arms, my Johnnie Faa, I'll daut ye late and bless ye early; Our lairds ha'e doft their bonnets braw, To fight for Scotland and Prince Charlie.
As Johnnie Faa gaed ower the burn, He sung unto himsel' fu' cheerie,— Hech! things ha'e ta'en an awfu' turn, Sin' Luckie Waggletail's my dearie: My heart loups licht, and vow I'm fain, To think upon the jig that's coming; But, as sure as death, I maist think shame To marry Willie Wagtail's woman.
# The Book of Scottish Song/Willie was a wanton wag

* related authors: William Hamilton (1665?-1751).
* sister projects: Wikidata item.
Willie was a wanton wag.
[This song first appeared in the Tea-Table Miscellany, vol. ii., 1725, with the initials W. W. attached, and its authorship is generally ascribed to William Walkinshaw of Walkinshaw, near Paisley. The hero of it is said to have been William Hamilton of Gilbertfield, Lanarkshire, the poetical correspondent of Ramsay, and author of the metrical Life of Sir William Wallace. Mr. David Laing even inclines to think that Hamilton was not only the hero but the real author of the song, and that the initials merely indicate his well-known sobriquet of Wanton Willie.]
Willie was a wanton wag, The blythest lad that e'er I saw, At bridals still he bore the brag, An' carried aye the gree awa'. His doublet was of Zetland shag, And wow! but Willie he was braw, And at his shoulder hang a tag, That pleas'd the lasses best of a'.
He was a man without a clag, His heart was frank without a flaw; And aye whatever Willie said, It still was hauden as a law. His boots they were made of the jag, When he went to the weaponschaw, Upon the green nane durst him brag, The ne'er a ane amang them a'.
And was na Willie weel worth gowd? He wan the love o' great and sma'; For after he the bride had kiss'd, He kiss'd the Lasses hale-sale a'. Sae merrily round the ring they row'd, When by the hand he led them a', And smack on smack on them bestow'd, By virtue of a standing law.
And was na Willie a great loun, As shyre a lick as e'er was seen; When he danc'd wi' the lasses round, The bridegroom speir'd where he had been, Quoth Willie, I've been at the ring, Wi' bobbing, baith my shanks are sair; Gae ca' your bride and maidens in, For Willie he dow do nae mair.
Then rest ye, Willie, I'll gae out, And for a wee fill up the ring. But, shame light on his souple snout, He wanted Willie's wanton fling. Then straught he to the bride did fare, Says, Weels me on your bonnie face; Wi' bobbing Willie's shanks are sair, And I'm come out to fill his place.
Bridegroom, she says, ye'll spoil the dance, And at the ring ye'll aye be lag, Unless like Willie ye advance: O! Willie has a wanton leg; For wi't he learns us a' to steer, And foremost aye bears up the ring; We will find nae sic dancing here, If we want Willie's wanton fling.
# The Book of Scottish Song/Willie wi' his wig a-jee

Willie wi’ his wig a-jee.
[William Chalmers.]
Oh, saw ye Willie frae the west? Oh, saw ye Willie in his glee? Oh, saw ye Willie frae the west, When he had got his wig a-jee?
There's "Scots wha ha'e wi' Wallace bled," He towers it up in sic a key, Oh saw ye Willie, hearty lad, When he had got his wig a-jee.
To hear him sing a canty air, He lilts it o'er sae charmingly, That in a moment aff flies care, When Willie gets his wig a-jee. Let drones croon o'er a winter night, A fig for them, whate'er they be, For I could sit till morning light, Wi' Willie and his wig a-jee.
At kirk on Sundays, sic a change Comes o'er his wig, and mou', and e'e, Sae douse—you'd think a cannon ball Wad scarce ca' Willie's wig a-jee. But when on Mondays be begins, And rants and roars continually, Till ilk owk's end, the very weans Gang daft—when Willie's wig's a-jee.
# The Book of Scottish Song/Wilt thou remember me

Wilt thou remember me.
[Patrick Maxwell, editor of Miss Blamire's Poetical Works. Tune, "Good night, and joy be ye a'."—Here first printed.]
Farewell! and, when I'm far away, O say, wilt thou remember me, When favour'd friends and faces gay Their soul's pure incense tender thee?— When all around are glad the while, And glory in thy loveliness;— When every heart shall own thy smile Its proudest aim—its highest bliss?
This may not be: thou know'st me not, A wand'rer on life's weary road; Yet will I bless my happy lot That led me to thy lov'd abode. I may not claim to have a part In thy dear breast, thou being fair; Yet, Lady, could'st thou see my heart, Thyself thou would'st find pictur'd there!
There it will dwell, and time defy So dear a record to erase;— Jiemorial of a dream gone by, The best, the brightest of my days. O that we had together met When youth and hope alike were new; My wither'd heart perhaps had yet Been spar'd the pangs of this adieu!
# The Book of Scottish Song/With waefu' heart

With waefu’ heart.
[Tannahill.—Air, "Sweet Annie frae the sea beach came."—Arranged by Smith.]
With waefu' heart, and sorrowing e'e, I saw my Jamie sail awa'; O 'twas a fatal day to me, That day he pass'd the Berwick Law: How joyless now seem'd all behind! I ling'ring stray'd along the shore; Dark boding fears hung on my mind That I might never see him more.
The night came on with heavy rain, Loud, fierce, and wild, the tempest blew; In mountains roll'd the awful main— Ah, hapless maid! my fears how true! The landsmen heard their drowning cries, The wreck was seen with dawning day; My love was found, and now he lies Low in the isle of gloomy May.
O boatman, kindly waft me o'er! The cavern'd rock shall be my home; 'Twill ease my burthen'd heart, to pour Its sorrows o'er his grassy tomb With sweetest flowers I'll deck his grave, And tend them through the langsome year, I'll water them ilk morn and eve, With deepest sorrow's wannest tear.
# The Book of Scottish Song/Winter, wi' his cloudy brow

Winter, wi’ his cloudy brow.
[Robert Tannahill.—Air, "Forneth House."]
Now winter, wi' his cloudy brow, Is far ayont yon mountains, And spring beholds her azure sky Reflected in the fountains. Now, on the budding slaethom bank, She spreads her early blossom, And wooes the mirly-breasted birds To nestle in her bosom. But lately a' was clad wi' snaw, Sae darksome, dull, and dreary, Now lavrocks sing, to hail the spring, And nature all is cheery.
Then let us leave the town, my love, And seek our country dwelling, Where waving woods, and spreading flow'rs, On every side are smiling. We'll tread again the daisied green, Where first your beauty moved me; We'll trace again the woodland scene, Where first ye own'd ye loved me. We soon will view the roses blaw In a' the charms of fancy, For doubly dear these pleasures a', When shared with thee, my Nancy.
# The Book of Scottish Song/Sweet Jeanie lass

Sweet Jeanie lass.
[Addressed to one of the rising generation of "Ayrshire's bonnie lasses." By Capt. Charles Gray, R. M.—Here first printed.]
Sweet Jeanie lass, my dearie, Gin I were young again, Nane else through life should cheer me, Wad thou but be my ain. But eild is creepin' o'er me; Bark shadows lower apace; While hope shines bright before thee, And joy lights up thy face.
May health, life's greatest blessing, Beam on thy cheek and brow; Be thine love's fond caressing Wi' ane whase heart is true. May age wi' a' its treasure O' sober thoughts be mine; While ilka heartfelt pleasure, Dear Jeanie lass, is thine.
# The Book of Scottish Song/Sweet May

Sweet May.
[Patrick Maxwell.—Air, "Miss Graham of Inchbrachie."]
Sweet May! sweet May! revives again The buds and blossoms of the year; And, clad anew, each hill and plain In emerald green appear. How bright the view from yonder bank, Of primroses and daisies fair, Where high o'er head the joyous lark Makes vocal all the air; And round and round the spangled mead The bounding lambkins frisk and play, And little rills, like living light, Gleam in the sunny ray.
But what were nature's fairest scenes, Though graced with a' her gayest flowers, Unless we loved, unless we felt, One fond, fond heart, were ours! Then come, my own dear Mary, come. My all on earth I prize most dear; And in yon blooming hawthorn shade, The glowing landscape near, I'll tell to thee my hopes and fears, And all my heart to thee confess, And if thou giv'st me love for love, I'll own no higher bliss.
# The Book of Scottish Song/Ta Offish

Ta Offish.
[Alex. Fisher.—Air, "Johnny Cape."]
Her nainsel' come frae ta hielan' hill, To ponny town o' Glascow till, But o' Glasgow she's koten her pelly fill, She'll no forget tis twa tree mornin'.
She'll met Shony Grant her cosin's son, An' Tuncan, an' Toukal, an' Tonal Cunn, An' twa three more—an' she had sic fun, But she'll turn't oot a saut saut mornin'.
Sae Shony Grant, a shill she'll ha'e O' ta fera cootest usquapae, An' she'll pochtet a shill, aye an' twa three mae, An' she'll trank till ta fera neist mornin'.
She'll sat, an' she'll trank, an' she'll roar, an' she'll sang, An' aye for ta shill ta pell she'll rang, An' she'll maet sic a tin fat a man she'll prang, An' she'll say't—"Co home 'tis mornin'."
Ta man she'll had on ta great pig coat, An' in her han' a rung she'll cot, An' a purnin' cruzie, an' she'll say't you sot She'll maun go to ta Offish tis mornin'.
She'll say't to ta man—"De an Diaoul shin duitse?" An' ta man she'll say't—"Pe quiet as ta mouse, Or nelse o'er her nottle she'll come fu' crouse, An' she'll put ta Offish in you in ta mornin."
Ta man she'll dunt on ta stane her stick, An' t'an she'll pe cheuk her rick-tick-tick, An' t'an she'll pe catchet her by ta neck, An' trawn her to ta Offish in ta mornin'.
Ta mornin' come she'll be procht before Ta gentleman's praw, an' her pones all sore, An' ta shentleman's say't, "You tog, what for You'll maet sic a tin in tis mornin'."
She'll teukit aff her ponnet and she'll maet her a poo, An' she'll say't, "Please her Grace she cot her sel' foo, But shust let her co and she'll never to Ta like no more in ta mornin'.
But fan she'll ha'et to ta shentleman's praw Ta Sheordie firae out o' her sporan traw, An' she'll roart out loot—"De an diaoul a ha'e gra? Oh hone O ri 'tis mornin'!"
O t'an she'll pe sait ta shentlemans, "she'll no unterstoot What fere she'll pe here like ta lallan prute, But she'll maet her cause either pad or coot, For she'll teuk you to ta law this mornin'." ​Ta shentleman's say't "respect ta coort, Or nelse my koot lat you'll suffer for 't, Shust taur to spokst another wort, An' she'll send her to ta Fischal in ta mornin'.
Oich! she didna knew what to do afa, For she nefer found herself so sma', An' klat she was right to kot awa', Frae oot o' ta offish in ta mornin'.
Oh! tat she war to ta Hielans pack, Whar ne'er ta pailie's tare to crack, An' whare she wad gotten ta sorro' a plack, Frae n'oot o' her sporan in ta mornin'.
An tat there was there her cosin's son, An' Tuncan, an' Tookal, and Tonal Cunn, An' twa tree more, she wad haet sic fun, And no be plaiget wi' pailies in ta mornin'.
# The Book of Scottish Song/Symon Brodie

Symon Brodie.
[This old ditty, to its own tune, appeared in Herd's collection, 1776.]
Symon Brodie had a cow: The cow was lost, and he couldna find her: When he had done what man could do, The cow cam' hame, and her tail behind her. Honest auld Simon Brodie, Stupid auld doitit bodie! I'll awa' to the north countrie, And see my ain dear Symon Brodie.
Symon Brodie had a wife, And, wow! but she was braw and bonnie. She took the dish-clout aff the bulk, And preen'd it to her cockernonie. Honest auld Symon Brodie, &c.
# The Book of Scottish Song/Sweet Betty

Sweet Betty.
["The following song, to the tune of "Blink over the burn, sweet Betty," was written by Joseph Mitchell, early in the last century. We have given a short notice of Mitchell in a previous Note.]
Leave kindred and friends, sweet Betty, Leave kindred and friends for me: Assur'd thy servant is steady To love, to honour, and thee. ​The gifts of nature and fortune May flee by chance as they came; They're grounds the destinies sport on, But virtue is ever the same.
Although my fancy were roving, Thy charms so heav'nly appear, That other beauties disproving, I'd worship thine only, my dear. And should life's sorrows embitter The pleasure we promis'd our loves, To share them together is fitter, Than moan asunder like doves.
Oh! were I but ance so blessed, To grasp my love in my arms! By thee to be grasp'd and kissed! And live on thy heaven of charms! I'd laugh at fortune's caprices, Should fortune capricious prove; Though death should tear me to pieces, I'd die a martyr to love.
# The Book of Scottish Song/Sweet Susan

Sweet Susan.
[Tune, "Leader-haughs."]
The morn was fair, saft was the air, All nature's sweets were springing; The buds did bow with silver dew, Ten thousand birds were singing: When on the bent, with blythe content, Young Jamie sang his marrow, Nae bonnier lass e'er trod the grass On Leader-haughs and Yarrow. ​How sweet her face, where ev'ry grace In heavenly beauty 's planted: Her smiling e'en, and comely mein, That nae perfection wanted. I'll never fret, nor ban my fate, But bless my bonnie marrow; If her dear smile my doubts beguile, My mind shall ken nae sorrow.
Yet though she's fair, and has full share Of ev'ry charm enchanting, Each good turns ill, and soon will kill Poor me, if love be wanting. O bonnie lass! have but the grace To think ere ye gae furder, Your joys maun flit, if ye commit The crying sin of murder.
My wand'ring ghaist will ne'er get rest, And day and night affright ye; But if ye're kind, with joyful mind, I'll study to delight ye. Our years around with love thus crown'd, From all things joy shall borrow; Thus none shall be more blest than we On Leader-haughs and Yarrow.
O sweetest Sue! 'tis only you Can make life worth my wishes, If equal love your mind can move To grant this best of blisses. Thou art my sun, and thy least frown Would blast me in the blossom; But if thou shine, and make me thine, I'll flourish in thy bosom.
# The Book of Scottish Song/Sweet the Bard

Sweet the Bard.
[Written by John Burtt, for an anniversary of Burns held in Philadelphia.]
Sweet the bard, and sweet his strain, Breath'd where mirth and friendship reig'n, O'er ilk woodland, hill, and plain, And loch o' Caledonia. Sweet the rural scenes he drew, Sweet the fairy tints he threw O'er the page, to nature true, And dear to Caledonia. But the strain so lov'd is o'er, And the bard so lov'd no more Shall his magic stanzas pour To love and Caledonia.
Ayr and Doon may row their floods, Birds may warble through the woods, Dews may gem the op'ning buds, And daisies bloom fu' bonnie, O; Lads fu' blythe and lasses fain, Still may love, but ne'er again Will they wake the gifted strain O' Burns and Caledonia. While his native vales among, Love is felt, or beauty sung, Hearts will beat and harps be strung To Burns and Caledonia.
# The Book of Scottish Song/Sweet Robin

Sweet Robin.
[From an anonymous sheet of music.]
O where are ye going, sweet Robin? What makes you sae proud and sae shy? I once saw the day, little Robin, My friendship you would not deny. But winter again is returning, And weather both stormy and snell: Gin ye will come back, little Robin, I'll feed ye wi' moulins mysel'.
When summer comes in, little Robin Forgets all his friends and his care; Away to the fields flies sweet Robin, To wander the groves here and there. Though you be my debtor, sweet Robin, On you I will never lay blame; For I've had as dear friends as Robin, Who often have served me the same.
I once had a lover like Robin, Who long for my love did implore; At last he took flight, just like Robin, And him I ne'er saw any more. But should the stern blast of misfortune Return him, as winter does thee, Though slighted by both, little Robin, Yet both of your faults I'll forgi'e.
# The Book of Scottish Song/Sweet is the dawn

Sweet is the dawn.
[David Vedder.—From the Edinburgh Literary Gazette.]
Sweet is the dawn of vernal morn, And doubly sweet to me That moment when the lamp of day Emerges from the sea, And lightens up the glowing skies As erst he lighted paradise.
But sweeter far to view thy face Suffused with beauty's glow; 'Tis like the morning's rosy rays Shining on Alpine snow,— And, oh! the radiance of those eyes To me, is more than paradise.
Oh, sweet the mavis' matin hymn— The merle's song at even; And sweet the lark's wild melody When soaring up to heaven; But music sweeter than thy voice Was never heard in paradise.
Oh, Mary! let one heavenly ray Beam from thy beauteous face, 'Twill light my clouded spirit up, And fill my soul with peace; 'Twill dissipate my mental gloom, And round me paradise shall bloom.
# The Book of Scottish Song/Symon and Janet

Symon and Janet.
[Written in 1803 (during the alarm of a French invasion) by Andrew Scott, now or recently bethral or church officer in the parish of Bowuen, Roxburghshire.]
Surrounded wi' bent and wi' heather, Where muircocks and plovers were rife, For mony a lang towmond together, There lived an auld man and his wife: About the affairs o' the nation The twasome they seldom were mute; Bonaparte, the French, and invasion, Did sa'ur in their wizzins like soot.
In winter, whan deep were the gutters, And nicht's gloomy canopy spread, Auld Symon sat luntin' his cuttie, And lowsin' his buttons for bed; ​Auld Janet, his wife, out a-gazing, To lock in the door was her care; She, seeing our signals a-blazing, Came rinnin' in ryving her hair:
O, Symon, the Frenchies are landit! Gae look man, and slip on your shoon; Our signals I see them extendit, Like red risin' rays frae the moon. What a plague! the French landit! quo' Symon, And clash gaed his pipe to the wa': Faith, then, there's be loadin' and primin', Quo' he, if they're landit ava.
Our youngest son's in the militia, Our eldest grandson's volunteer: O' the French to be fu' o' the flesh o', I too i' the ranks shall appear. His waistcoat-pouch fill'd he wi' pouther, And bang'd down his rusty auld gun; His bullets he pat in the other, That he for the purpose had run.
Then humpled he out in a hurry, While Janet his courage bewails, And cried out, Dear Symon, be wary! And teuchly she hung by his tails. Let be wi' your kindness, cried Symon, Nor vex me wi' tears and your cares; For, now to be ruled by a woman, Nae laurels shall crown my grey hairs.
Then hear me, quo' Janet, I pray thee, I'll tend thee, love, livin' or deid, And if thou should fa', I'll dee wi' thee, Or tie up thy wounds if thou bleed. Quo' Janet, O, keep frae the riot! Last nicht, man, I dreamt ye was deid; This aught days I tentit a pyot Sit chatt'rin' upon the house-heid.
As yesterday, workin' my stockin', And you wi' the sheep on the hill, A muckle black corbie sat croaking; I kend it forebodit some ill. Hout, cheer up, dear Janet, be hearty, For, ere the neist sun may gae down, Wha kens but I'll shoot Bonaparte, And end my auld days in renown.
Syne off in a hurry he stumpled, Wi' bullets, and pouther, and gun; At's curpin auld Janet, too, humpled Awa' to the neist neebour-toun: There footmen and yeomen paradin', To scour off in dirdum were seen; And wives and young lasses a' sheddin' The briny saut tears frae their een.
Then aff wi' his bonnet got Symie, And to the commander he gaes, Quo' he, Sir, I mean to gae wi' ye, And help ye to lounder our faes: I'm auld, yet I'm teuch as the wire, Sae we'll at the rogues ha'e a dash, And fegs, if my gun wiuna fire, I'll turn her but-end and I'll thrash.
Well spoken, my hearty old hero! The captain did smilin' reply; But begg'd he wad stay till to-morrow, Till day-licht should glent in the sky. What reck, a' the stoure cam' to naething, Sae Symon, and Janet his dame, Halescart, frae the wars, without skaithing, Gaed, bannin' the French, away hame.
# The Army and Navy Hymnal/Hymns/Worship and Praise

Layout 2
* Come, We Who Love the Lord
* From All That Dwell Below the Skies
* Praise Him! Praise Him
* Come, Thou Almighty King
* O Worship the King, All-Glorious Above