OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# The "Bab" Ballads/The Periwinkle Girl

THE PERIWINKLE GIRL.
I'VE often thought that headstrong youths,
Of decent education,
Determine all-important truths
With strange precipitation.
The over-ready victims they,
Of logical illusions,
And in a self-assertive way
They jump at strange conclusions.
Now take my case: Ere sorrow could
My ample forehead wrinkle,
I had determined that I would
Not like to be a winkle.
"A winkle," I would oft advance
With readiness provoking,
"Can seldom flirt, and never dance,
Or sooth his mind by smoking."
In short, I spurned the shelly joy,
And spoke with strange decision— Men pointed to me as a boy
Who held them in derision.
But I was young—too young, by far— Or I had been more wary,
I knew not then that winkles are
The stock-in-trade of Mary.
I had not seen her sunlight blithe
As o'er their shells it dances,
I've seen those winkles almost writhe
Beneath her beaming glances.
Of slighting all the winkly brood
I surely had been chary,
If I had known they formed the food
And stock-in-trade of Mary.
Both high and low and great and small
Fell prostrate at her tootsies,
They all were noblemen, and all
Had balances at Coutts's.
Dukes with the lovely maiden dealt,
Duke Bailey and Duke Humphy,
Who eat her winkles till they felt,
Exceedingly uncomfy.
Duke Bailey greatest wealth computes, And sticks, they say, at no-thing.
He wears a pair of golden boots
And silver underclothing.
Duke Humphy, as I understand,
Though mentally acuter,
His boots are only silver, and
His underclothing pewter.
A third adorer had the girl,
A man of lowly station—
A miserable grov'ling earl
Besought her approbation.
This humble cad she did refuse
With much contempt and loathing,
He wore a pair of leather shoes
And cambric underclothing!
"Ha! ha!" she cried, "Upon my word!
"Well, really—come, I never!
Oh, go along, it's too absurd!
My goodness! Did you ever?
"Two dukes would make their Bowles a bride,
And from her foes defend her"—
"Well, not exactly that," they cried,
"We offer guilty splendour.
"We do not offer marriage rite,
So please dismiss the notion!"
"Oh, dear," said she, "that alters quite
The state of my emotion."
The earl he up, and says, says he,
"Dismiss them to their orgies,
For I am game to marry thee
Quite reg'lar at St. George's."
He'd had, it happily befell,
A decent education, His views would have befitted well
A far superior station.
His sterling worth had worked a cure,
She never heard him grumble;
She saw his soul was good and pure
Although his rank was humble.
Her views of earldoms and their lot,
All underwent expansion,
Come, Virtue in an earldom's cot!
Go, Vice in ducal mansion!
# The "Bab" Ballads/The Folly of Brown

THE FOLLY OF BROWN.
By a General Agent.
I KNEW a boor—a clownish card,
 (His only friends were pigs and cows and
The poultry of a small farmyard)
Who came into two hundred thousand.
Good fortune worked no change in Brown, Though she's a mighty social chymist;
He was a clown—and by a clown
I do not mean a pantomimist.
It left him quiet, calm, and cool,
Though hardly knowing what a crown was—
You can't imagine what a fool
Poor rich, uneducated Brown was!
He scouted all who wished to come
And give him monetary schooling;
And I propose to give you some
Idea of his insensate fooling.
I formed a company or two—
(Of course I don't know what the rest meant,
I formed them solely with a view
To help him to a sound investment).
Their objects were—their only cares—
To justify their Boards in showing
A handsome dividend on shares,
And keep their good promoter going.
But no—the lout prefers his brass,
Though shares at par I freely proffer:
Yes—will it be believed?—the ass
Declines, with thanks, my well-meant offer!
He added, with a bumpkin's grin,
(A weakly intellect denoting)
He'd rather not invest it in
A company of my promoting!
"You have two hundred 'thou' or more,"
Said I. "You'll waste it, lose it, lend it:
Come, take my furnished second floor,
I'll gladly show you how to spend it."
But will it be believed that he,
With grin upon his face of poppy,
Declined my aid, while thanking me
For what he called my "philanthroppy"?
Some blind, suspicious fools rejoice
In doubting friends who wouldn't harm them; They will not hear the charmer's voice,
However wisely he may charm them.
I showed him that his coat, all dust,
Top boots and cords provoked compassion,
And proved that men of station must
Conform to the decrees of fashion.
I showed him where to buy his hat,
To coat him, trouser him, and boot him;
But no—he wouldn't hear of that—
"He didn't think the style would suit him!"
I offered him a county seat,
And made no end of an oration;
I made it certainty complete,
And introduced the deputation.
But no—the clown my prospects blights—
(The worth of birth it surely teaches!)
"Why should I want to spend my nights
In Parliament, a-making speeches?
"I haven't never been to school—
I ain't had not no eddication—
And I should surely be a fool
To publish that to all the nation!"
I offered him a trotting horse—
No hack had ever trotted faster—
I also offered him, of course,
A rare, and curious "old Master."
I offered to procure him weeds—
Wines fit for one in his position—
But, though an ass in all his deeds.
He'd learnt the meaning of "commission."
He called me "thief" the other day,
And daily from his door he thrusts me;
Much more of this, and soon I may
Begin to think that Brown mistrusts me.   So deaf to all sound Reason's rule
This poor uneducated clown is,
You cannot fancy what a fool
Poor rich uneducated Brown is.
# The "Bab" Ballads/The Phantom Curate

THE PHANTOM CURATE.
A FABLE.
A BISHOP once—I will not name his see—
 Annoyed his clergy in the mode conventional;
From pulpit-shackles never set them free,
And found a sin where sin was unintentional.
All pleasures ended in abuse auricular—
The Bishop was so terribly particular.
Though, on the whole, a wise and upright man,
He sought to make of human pleasures clearances;
And form his priests on that much-lauded plan
Which pays undue attention to appearances.
He couldn't do good deeds without a psalm in 'em,
Although, in truth, he bore away the palm in 'em.
Enraged to find a deacon at a dance, Or catch a curate at some mild frivolity,
He sought by open censure to enhance
Their dread of joining harmless social jollity.
Yet he enjoyed (a fact of notoriety)
The ordinary pleasures of society.
One evening, sitting at a pantomime,
(Forbidden treat to those who stood in fear of him),
Roaring at jokes, sans metre, sense, or rhyme,
He turned, and saw immediately in rear of him,
His peace of mind upsetting, and annoying it,
A curate, also heartily enjoying it.
Again, 'twas Christmas Eve, and to enhance
His children's pleasure in their harmless rollicking,
He, like a good old fellow, stood to dance;
When something checked the current of his frollicking;
That curate, with a maid he treated lover-ly,
Stood up and figured with him in the "Coverley!"
Once, yielding to an universal choice
(The company's demand was an emphatic one,
For the old Bishop had a glorious voice),
In a quartet he joined—an operatic one.
Harmless enough, though ne'er a word of grace in it,
When, lo! that curate came and took the bass in it!
One day, when passing through a quiet street,
He stopped awhile and joined a Punch's gathering;
And chuckled more than solemn folk think meet, To see that gentleman his Judy lathering;
And heard, as Punch was being treated penally,
That phantom-curate laughing all hyænally.
Now at a pic-nic, 'mid fair golden curls,
Bright eyes, straw hats, bottines that fit amazingly;
A croquêt-bout is planned by all the girls;
And he, consenting, speaks of croquêt praisingly.
But suddenly declines to play at all in it—
The curate-fiend has come to take a ball in it!
Next, when at quiet sea-side village, freed
From cares episcopal and ties monarchical,
He grows his beard, and smokes his fragrant weed,
In manner anything but hierarchical—
He sees—and fixes an unearthly stare on it— That curate's face, with half a yard of hair on it!
At length he gave a charge, and spake this word,
"Vicars, your curates to enjoyment urge ye may;
To check their harmless pleasuring's absurd;
What laymen do without reproach, my clergy may."
He spake, and lo! at this concluding word of him,
The curate vanished—no one since has heard of him.
# The "Bab" Ballads/The Precocious Baby

THE PRECOCIOUS BABY.
A VERY TRUE TALE.
(To be sung to the Air of the "Whistling Oyster.")
AN elderly person—a prophet, by trade—
With his quips and tips
On withered old lips,
He married a young and a beautiful maid;
The cunning old blade
Though rather decayed,
He married a beautiful, beautiful maid.
She was only eighteen, and as fair as could be,
With her tempting smiles
And maidenly wiles, And he was a trifle of seventy-three:
Now what she could see
Is a puzzle to me,
In a buffer of seventy—seventy-three!   Of all their acquaintances bidden (or bad)
With their loud high jinks
And underbred winks
None thought they'd a family have—but they had;
A dear little lad
Who drove 'em half mad, For he turned out a horribly fast little cad.
For when he was born he astonished all by,
With their "Law, dear me!"
"Did ever you see?"
He'd a weed in his mouth and a glass in his eye,
A hat all awry—
An octagon tie,
And a miniature—miniature glass in his eye.
He grumbled at wearing a frock and a cap,
With his "Oh, dear, oh!"
And his "Hang it! you know!'
And he turned up his nose at his excellent pap—
"My friends, it's a tap
That is not worth a rap"
(Now this was remarkably excellent pap.)
He'd chuck his nurse under the chin, and he'd say,
With his "Fal, lal, lal"—
"You doosed fine gal!"
This shocking precocity drove 'em away:
"A month from to-day
Is as long as I'll stay—
Then I'd wish, if you please, for to hook it away."
His father, a simple old gentleman, he
With nursery rhyme
And "Once on a time,"
Would tell him the story of "Little Bo P," "So pretty was she,
So pretty and wee,
As pretty, as pretty, as pretty could be."
But the babe, with a dig that would startle an ox,
With his "C'ck! Oh, my!—
Go along wiz 'oo, fie!"
Would exclaim, "I'm affaid 'oo a socking ole fox."
Now a father it shocks,
And it whitens his locks
When his little babe calls him a shocking old fox.
The name of his father he'd couple and pair
(With his ill-bred laugh,
And insolent chaff)
With those of the nursery heroines rare
Virginia the fair,
Or Good Goldenhair
Till the nuisance was more than a prophet could bear.
"There's Jill and White Cat" (said the bold little brat,
With his loud, "Ha, ha!")
"'Oo sly ickle pa!
Wiz 'oo Beauty, Bo Peep, and 'oo Mrs. Jack Sprat!
I've noticed 'oo pat
My pretty White Cat— I sink dear mamma ought to know about dat!"
He early determined to marry and wive,
For better or worse
With his elderly nurse—
Which the poor little boy didn't live to contrive;
His health didn't thrive—
No longer alive, He died an enfeebled old dotard at five!
MORAL.
Now elderly men of the bachelor crew,
With wrinkled hose
And spectacled nose,
Don't marry at all—you may take it as true
If ever you do
The step you will rue,
For your babes will be elderly—elderly too.
# The "Bab" Ballads/The Force of Argument

THE FORCE OF ARGUMENT.
LORD B. was a nobleman bold
Who came of illustrious stocks,
He was thirty or forty years old,
And several feet in his socks.
To Tumiptopville-by-the-Sea
This elegant nobleman went,
For that was a borough that he
Was anxious to rep-per-re-sent.
At local assemblies he danced
Until he felt thoroughly ill—
He waltzed, and he galloped, and lanced,
And threaded the mazy quadrille.
The maidens of Turniptopville
Were simple—ingenuous—pure—
And they all worked away with a will
The nobleman's heart to secure.
Two maidens all others beyond
Imagined their chances looked well— The one was the lively Ann Pond,
The other sad Mary Morell.
Ann Pond had determined to try
And carry the Earl with a rush,
Her principal feature was eye, Her greatest accomplishment—gush.
And Mary chose this for her play
Whenever he looked in her eye
She'd blush and turn quickly away,
And flitter and flutter and sigh.
It was noticed he constantly sighed
As she worked out the scheme she had planned— A fact he endeavoured to hide,
With his aristocratical hand.
Old Pond was a farmer, they say,
And so was old Tommy Morell.
In a humble and pottering way
They were doing exceedingly well.
They both of them carried by vote,
The Earl was a dangerous man,
So nervously clearing his throat,
One morning old Tommy began:
"My darter's no pratty young doll—
I'm a plainspoken Zommerzet man—
Now what do 'ee mean by my Poll And what do 'ee mean by his Ann?"
Said B., "I will give you my bond
I mean them uncommonly well,
Believe me, my excellent Pond,
And credit me, worthy Morell.   "It's quite indisputable, for
I'll prove it with singular ease,
You shall have it in 'Barbara' or
'Celarent'—whichever you please.
"You see, when an anchorite bows
To the yoke of intentional sin—
If the state of the country allows,
Homogeny always steps in—
"It's a highly æsthetical bond,
As any mere ploughboy can tell—"
"Of course," replied puzzled old Pond.
"I see," said old Tommy Morell.
"Very good then," continued the lord,
"When its fooled to the top of its bent,
With a sweep of a Damocles sword
The web of intention is rent.
"That's patent to all of us here, As any mere schoolboy can tell."
Pond answered, "Of course it's quite clear;"
And so did that humbug Morell.
"Its tone's esoteric in force— I trust that I make myself clear?"— Morell only answered "Of course,"
While Pond slowly muttered, "Hear, hear."
"Volition—celestial prize,
Pellucid as porphyry cell— Is based on a principle wise."
"Quite so," exclaimed Pond and Morell.
"From what I have said, you will see
That I couldn't wed either—in fine
By Nature's unchanging decree
Your daughters could never be mine.   "Go home to your pigs and your ricks,
My hands of the matter I've rinsed."
So they take up their hats and their sticks,
And exeunt ambo, convinced.
# The Annotated "Ulysses"/Page 105

But they must breed a devil of a lot of maggots. Soil must be simply swirling with them. Your head it simply swurls. Those pretty little seaside gurls. He looks cheerful enough over it. Gives him a sense of power seeing all the others go under first. Wonder how he looks at life. Cracking his jokes too : warms the cockles of his heart. The one about the bulletin. Spurgeon went to heaven 4 a. m. this morning. 11 p. m. (closing time). Not arrived yet. Peter. The dead themselves the men anyhow would like to hear an odd joke or the women to know what’s in fashion. A juicy pear or ladies’ punch, hot, strong and sweet. Keep out the damp. You must laugh sometimes so better do it that way. Gravediggers in Hamlet. Shows the profound knowledge of the human heart. Daren’t joke about the dead for two years at least. De mortuis nil nisi prius. Go out of mourning first. Hard to imagine his funeral. Seems a sort of a joke. Read your own obituary notice they say you live longer. Gives you second wind. New lease of life.
— How many have you for tomorrow? the caretaker asked.
— Two, Corny Kelleher said. Half ten and eleven.
The caretaker put the papers in his pocket. The barrow had ceased to trundle. The mourners split and moved to each side of the hole, stepping with care round the graves. The gravediggers bore the coffin and set its nose on the brink, looping the bands round it.
Burying him. We come to bury Caesar. His ides of March or June. He doesn’t know who is here nor care.
Now who is that lankylooking galoot over there in the macintosh? Now who is he I’d like to know? Now, I’d give a trifle to know who he is. Always someone turns up you never dreamt of. A fellow could live on his lonesome all his life. Yes, he could. Still he’d have to get someone to sod him after he died though he could dig his own grave. We all do. Only man buries. No ants too. First thing strikes anybody. Bury the dead. Say Robinson Crusoe was true to life. Well then Friday buried him. Every Friday buries a Thursday if you come to look at it.
                O, poor Robinson Crusoe,
                How could you possibly do so?
Poor Dignam! His last lie on the earth in his box. When you think of them all it does seem a waste of wood. All gnawed through. They could invent a handsome bier with a kind of panel sliding let it down that way. Ay but

## Annotations

"Your head it simply swurls . . . gurls."
Phrases reminiscent of the song by Harry B. Norris "Those Seaside Girls" (1899). Cf. the "Lestrygonians" episode and the "Nausicaa" episode: "Those girls, those girls, those lovely seaside girls. . . . Your head it simply swirls."
# The Annotated "Ulysses"/Page 104

in the dead letter office. Be the better of a shave. Grey sprouting beard. That’s the first sign when the hairs come out grey and temper getting cross. Silver threads among the grey. Fancy being his wife. Wonder how he had the gumption to propose to any girl. Come out and live in the graveyard. Dangle that before her. It might thrill her first. Courting death... Shades of night hovering here with all the dead stretched about. The shadows of the tombs when churchyards yawn and Daniel O’Connell must be a descendant I suppose who is this used to say he was a queer breedy man great catholic all the same like a big giant in the dark. Will o’the wisp. Gas of graves. Want to keep her mind off it to conceive at all. Women especially are so touchy. Tell her a ghost story in bed to make her sleep. Have you ever seen a ghost? Well, I have. It was a pitchdark night. The clock was on the stroke of twelve. Still they’d kiss all right if properly keyed up. Whores in Turkish graveyards. Learn anything if taken young. You might pick up a young widow here. Men like that. Love among the tombstones. Romeo. Spice of pleasure. In the midst of death we are in life. Both ends meet. Tantalising for the poor dead. Smell of grilled beefsteaks to the starving gnawing their vitals. Desire to grig people. Molly wanting to do it at the window. Eight children he has anyway.
He has seen a fair share go under in his time, lying around him field after field. Holy fields. More room if they buried them standing. Sitting or kneeling you couldn’t. Standing? His head might come up some day above ground in a landslip with his hand pointing. All honeycombed the ground must be : oblong cells. And very neat he keeps it too, trim grass and edgings. His garden Major Gamble calls Mount Jerome. Well so it is. Ought to be flowers of sleep. Chinese cemeteries with giant poppies growing produce the best opium Mastiansky told me. The Botanic Gardens are just over there. It’s the blood sinking in the earth gives new life. Same idea those jews they said killed the christian boy. Every man his price. Well preserved fat corpse gentleman, epicure, invaluable for fruit garden. A bargain. By carcase of William Wilkinson, auditor and accountant, lately deceased, three pounds thirteen and six. With thanks.
I daresay the soil would be quite fat with corpse manure, bones, flesh, nails, charnelhouses. Dreadful. Turning green and pink, decomposing. Rot quick in damp earth lean. The lean old ones tougher. Then a kind of a tallowy kind of a cheesy. Then begin to get black, treacle oozing out of them. Then dried up. Deathmoths. Of course the cells or whatever they are go on living. Changing about. Live for ever practically. Nothing to feed on feed on themselves.
# The Annotated "Ulysses"/Page 100

Father Coffey. I knew his name was like a coffin. Dominenamine. Bully about the muzzle he looks. Bosses the show. Muscular christian. Woe betide anyone that looks crooked at him : priest. Thou art Peter. Burst sideways like a sheep in clover Dedalus says he will. With a belly on him like a poisoned pup. Most amusing expressions that man finds. Hhhn : burst sideways.
— Non intres in judicium cum servo tuo, Domine.
Makes them feel more important to be prayed over in Latin. Requiem mass. Crape weepers. Black edged notepaper. Your name on the altarlist. Chilly place this. Want to feed well, sitting in there all the morning in the gloom kicking his heels waiting for the next please. Eyes of a toad too. What swells him up that way? Molly gets swelled after cabbage. Air of the place maybe. Looks full up of bad gas. Must be an infernal lot of bad gas round the place. Butchers for instance : they get like raw beefsteaks. Who was telling me? Mervyn Brown. Down in the vaults of saint Werburgh’s lovely old organ hundred and fifty they have to bore a hole in the coffins sometimes to let out the bad gas and burn it. Out it rushes : blue. One whiff of that and you’re a goner.
My kneecap is hurting me. Ow. That’s better.
The priest took a stick with a knob at the end of it out of the boy’s bucket and shook it over the coffin. Then he walked to the other end and shook it again. Then he came back and put it back in the bucket. As you were before you rested. It’s all written down : he has to do it.
— Et ne nos inducas in tentationem.
The server piped the answers in the treble. I often thought it would be better to have boy servants. Up to fifteen or so. After that of course…
Holy water that was, I expect. Shaking sleep out of it. He must be fed up with that job, shaking that thing over all the corpses they trot up. What harm if he could see what he was shaking it over. Every mortal day a fresh batch : middleaged men, old women, children, women dead in childbirth, men with beards, baldheaded business men, consumptive girls with little sparrow’s breasts. All the year round he prayed the same thing over them all and shook water on top of them : sleep. On Dignam now.
— In paradisum.
Said he was going to paradise or is in paradise. Says that over everybody. Tiresome kind of a job. But he has to say something.
The priest closed his book and went off, followed by the server. Corny
# The Annotated "Ulysses"/Page 099

— I was down there for the, Cork park races on Easter Monday, Ned Lambert said. Same old six and eightpence. Stopped with Dick Tivy.
— And how is Dick, the solid man?
— Nothing between himself and heaven, Ned Lambert answered.
— By the holy Paul! Mr Dedalus said in subdued wonder. Dick Tivy bald?
— Martin is going to get up a whip for the youngsters, Ned Lambert said, pointing ahead. A few bob a skull. Just to keep them going till the insurance is cleared up.
— Yes, yes, Mr Dedalus said dubiously. Is that the eldest boy in front?
— Yes, Ned Lambert said, with the wife’s brother. John Henry Menton is behind. He put down his name for a quid.
— I’ll engage he did, Mr Dedalus said. I often told poor Paddy he ought to mind that job. John Henry is not the worst in the world.
— How did he lose it? Ned Lambert asked. Liquor, what?
— Many a good man’s fault, Mr Dedalus said with a sigh.
They halted about the door of the mortuary chapel. Mr Bloom stood behind the boy with the wreath, looking down at his sleek combed hair and the slender furrowed neck inside his brandnew collar. Poor boy! Was he there when the father? Both unconscious. Lighten up at the last moment and recognise for the last time. All he might have done. I owe three shillings to O’Grady. Would he understand? The mutes bore the coffin into the chapel. Which end is his head?
After a moment he followed the others in, blinking in the screened light. The coffin lay on its bier before the chancel four tall yellow candles at its corners. Always in front of us. Corny Kelleher, laying a wreath at each fore corner, beckoned to the boy to kneel. The mourners knelt here and there in praying desks. Mr Bloom stood behind near the font and, when all had knelt dropped carefully his unfolded newspaper from his pocket and knelt his right knee upon it. He fitted his black hat gently on his left knee and, holding its brim, bent over piously.
A server, bearing a brass bucket with something in it, came out through a door. The whitesmocked priest came after him tidying his stole with one hand, balancing with the other a little book against his toad’s belly. Who’ll read the book? I, said the rook.
They halted by the bier and the priest began to read out of his book with a fluent croak.