OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# The comical stories of Thrummy Cap and the Ghaist/Soda Water

SODA WATER.
Puir Scotland's scaith is whisky rife, The very king o' curses; Breeds ilka ill, care, trouble, strife, Ruins health and empties purses. It fills a peaceful land wi' strife, The ale-house fills wi' roarin'; It fills wil broils domestic life, An' fills the kirk wi' snoarin'.
'Twas on a bonny morn in May, Twa three chiels did forgather, The night before they'd gane astray, And were a' drunk thegither; Wi' pain their pows were like to part, Their very tongues did russel; Wi' shilpit look and shiverin' heart, And throats as dry's a whissel.'
O for a drink of something cool, Says ane, for I'm maist faintin': Then let's go in, another says, For my puir head's just rentin.
​And I've the very best receipt, The stomach fumes to scatter; Then loose nae time and let us get A waught o' Soda Water.
Water will never do, says ane, Gie me some cheese that's mittie, And then a bumper o' good gin, Or sterling aquavitæ: To make you right this is the plan, 'Twill make yon fair and fatter; But says the chiel that first began, There's nought like Soda Water.
If Soda Water be sae good, Gang ye and drink your fill; But I wad hae it understood, That I'd prefer a gill; Water's a blessing, nae doubt, fixt, And may it ne'er be missing; But when wi' whisky it is mixt, It's then a double blessing.
On fixed air the hale house rang, And pointed observations, For some were right and some were wrang, And some were out o' patience. Ye dinna seem to be in haste, For a' your chitter chatter; Come bring it in, and let us taste This self same Soda Water.
Unto ilk man a bottle's plac'd, In silent expectation,
​That they wad better be in haste After so much oration; It's just to be, or not to be, To take an unkenn'd doze, Short sighted man can hardly see An inch before his nose.
I'll ask a favour frae ilk man, And ye will surely grant it, To drink it up as quick's you can, Nor take time to decant it; Like bugle-horns then in a raw, They glower up to the lift, And it was hardly down when twa O'them began to rift.
That's curious stuff, it's made me weal I ne'er drank this before, Wi' that the Soda Water chiel Got up wi' sic a roar; I'm gone, I'm poison'd, fatal drink! For me there is no cure, When o'er his cheeks, black streams like in Ran gushing to the floor.
He held the bottle up to break, Nae langer life expeckin', Syne read the label round it's neck, Tho real Japan; He's ill before, but now he's worse, Wi' gut and ga' he's partin', And 'twixt ilk boak he gaed a curse Against real Day and Martin.
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 comical stories of Thrummy Cap and the Ghaist (NLS104185773)/Scarcity of Asses

SCARCITY OF ASSES.
The Reverend Mr Thom of Govan, riding home from Paisley, on a particular occasion, came up with two gentlemen, heritors of his parish, who had lately been made justices of the peace. They, seeing him well mounted, as usual, were determined pass a joke on him, and accosted him thus :—
Well, Mr Thom, you are very unlike your master, for he was content to ride on an ass.’ ‘An ass,’ says Mr Thom, ‘there’s no sic a beast to be gotten now-a-days.’ ‘Ay, how’s that?’ said they, ‘Because,’ replied Mr Thom, ‘they now make them a’ justices of the peace.
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 comical stories of Thrummy Cap and the Ghaist (NLS104185773)/Soda Water

SODA WATER.
Puir Scotland’s scaith is whisky rife, The very king o’ curses; Breeds ilka ill, care, trouble, strife, Ruins health and empties purses. It fills a peaceful land vvi’ strife, The ale-house fills wi’ roarin’; It fills wi’ broils domestic life, An’ fills the kirk wi’ snoarin’.
’Twas on a bonny morn in May, Twa three chiels did forgather, The night before, they’d gane astray, And were a’ drunk thegither; Wi’ pain their pows were like to part, Their very tongues did russel; Wi’ shilpit look and shiverin’ heart, And throats as dry’s a whissel.
O for a drink of something cool, Says ane, for Pm maist faintin’; Then let’s go in, another says, For my puir head’s just rentin,
​And I've the very best receipt, The stomach fumes to scatter; Then loose nae time and let us get A waught o' Soda Water.
Water will never do, says ane, Gie me some cheese that's mittie, And then a bumper o'good gin, Or sterling aquavitæ: To make you right this is the plan, 'Twill make you fair and fatter; But says the chiel that first began, There's nought like Soda Water.
If Soda Water be sae good, Gang ye and drink But, I wad hae it understood, That I'd prefer a gill; Water's a blessing, nae doubt, fixt, And may it ne'er be missing; But when wi' whisky it is mixt, It's then a double blessing.
On fixed air the hale house rang, And pointed observations, For some were right and some were wrang, And some were out of patience. Ye dinna seem to be in haste, For a' your chitter chatter; Come bring it in, and let us taste This self same Soda Water.
Unto ilk man a bottle's plac'd, In silent expectation,
​That they wad better be in haste After so much oration; It's just to be, or not to be, To take an unkenn'd doze, Short sighted man can hardly see An inch before his nose.
I'll ask 'hi favour frae ilk man, And ye will surely grant it, To drink it up as quick's you can, Nor take time to decant it; Like-bugle-horns then in a raw, They glower up to the lift, And it was hardly down when twa O' them began to rift.
That's curious stuff, it's made me weel, I ne'er drank this before, Wi' that the Soda Water chiel Got up wi' sic a roar; I'm gone, I'm poison’d, fatal drink! For me there is no cure; When o'er his cheeks, black streams like (illegible text) Ran gushing to the floor.
He held the bottle up to break, Nae langer life expeckin', Syne read the label round it's neck, The real Japan Blackin; He's ill before, but now he's worse, Wi' grit and ga he's partin', And twixt ilk boak he gaed a curse Against real Day and Martin.
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 comical stories of Thrummy Cap and the Ghaist (NLS104185773)/Blind Fou

BLIND FOU.
The late Reverend Mr C...... of D......, in Aberdeenshire, being summoned before his presbytery, for tippling, one of his elders, the constant participator of his orgies, was summoned to appear as a witness against him. ‘Weel, John,’ said a member of the reverend court, ‘did you ever see Mr C...... the worse of drink?’ ‘Weel I wat, no,’ answered John; I’ve mony time seen him the better o’t, but never seen him the waur o’t.’ ‘But did you never see him drunk? ‘That’s what I’ll never see,’ replied the elder; ‘for lang before he’s half slokened, I’m aye blind fou.’
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 Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 17/Prologue to Three Hours After Marriage

This work was probably written by Alexander Pope. See The Works of Alexander Pope (1995). Wordsworth Edition Ltd. p. 359.
PROLOGUE
TO THE
THREE HOURS AFTER MARRIAGE.
AUTHORS are judg'd by strange capricious rules; The great ones are thought mad, the small ones fools: Yet sure the best are most severely fated; For fools are only laugh'd at, wits are hated. Blockheads with reason men of sense abhor; But fool 'gainst fool, is barbarous civil war. Why on all authors then should criticks fall? Since some have writ, and shown no wit at all. Condemn a play of theirs, and they evade it; Cry, "Damn not us, but damn the French, who made it." ​By running goods these graceless owlers gain, Theirs are the rules of France, the plots of Spain: But wit, like wine, from happier climates brought, Dash'd by these rogues, turns English common draught. They pall Moliere's and Lopez' sprightly strain, And teach dull Harlequins to grin in vain. How shall our author hope a gentler fate, Who dares most impudently not translate? It had been civil, in these ticklish times, To fetch his fools and knaves from foreign climes. Spaniards and French abuse to the world's end; But spare old England, lest you hurt a friend. If any fool is by our satire bit, Let him hiss loud, to show you all he's hit. Poets make characters, as salesmen clothes; We take no measure of your fops and beaus; But here all sizes and all shapes you meet, And fit yourselves, like chaps in Monmouth street. Gallants, look here! this fool's cap has an air. Goodly and smart, with ears of Issachar, Let no one fool engross it, or confine A common blessing! now 'tis yours, now mine. But poets in all ages had the care To keep this cap for such as will, to wear. Our author has it now (for every wit Of course resign'd it to the next that writ) And thus upon the stage 'tis fairly thrown; Let him that takes it wear it as his own.
* ↑ Shows a cap with ears.
* ↑ Flings down the cap, and exit.
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 17/Song by a Person of Quality

SONG.
BY A PERSON OF QUALITY.
I SAID to my heart, between sleeping and waking, Thou wild thing, that always art leaping or aching, What black, brown, or fair, in what clime, in what nation, By turns has not taught thee a pit-a-pat-ation?
Thus accus'd, the wild thing gave this sober reply: See the heart without motion, tho' Celia pass by! Not the beauty she has, or the wit that she borrows, Gives the eye any joys, or the heart any sorrows.
When our Sappho appears, she whose wit's so refin'd, I am forc'd to applaud with the rest of mankind; Whatever she says, is with spirit and fire; Ev'ry word I attend; but I only admire.
Prudentia as vainly would put in her claim, Ever gazing on Heaven, tho' man is her aim: 'Tis love, not devotion, that turns up her eyes: Those stars of this world are too good for the skies.
But Cloe so lively, so easy, so fair, Her wit so genteel, without art, without care; When she comes in my way, the motion, the pain, The leapings, the achings, return all again.
O wonderful creature! a woman of reason! Never grave out of pride, never gay out of season! When so easy to guess who this angel should be, Would one think Mrs. Howard ne'er dreamt it was she?
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 17/Strephon and Flavia

While this work is included within The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift and is not attributed to anyone other than Jonathan Swift, it may have been written by another member of the Scriblerus Club. The club, which was founded in 1714, included Jonathan Swift, Alexander Pope, John Gay, John Arbuthnot, Henry St John, and Thomas Parnell.
STREPHON AND FLAVIA.
WITH ev'ry lady in the land Soft Strephon kept a pother; One year he languish'd for one hand, And next year for the other.
Yet, when his love the shepherd told To Flavia fair and coy, ​Reserv'd, demure, than snow more cold, She scorn'd the gentle boy.
Late at a ball he own'd his pain: She blush'd, and frown'd, and swore, With all the marks of high disdain, She'd never hear him more.
The swain persisted still to pray, The nymph still to deny; At last she vow'd she would not stay; He swore she should not fly.
Enrag'd, she call'd her footman straight, And rush'd from out the room. Drove to her lodging, lock'd the gate, And lay with Ralph at home.
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 17/Sylvia

While this work is included within The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift and is not attributed to anyone other than Jonathan Swift, it may have been written by another member of the Scriblerus Club. The club, which was founded in 1714, included Jonathan Swift, Alexander Pope, John Gay, John Arbuthnot, Henry St John, and Thomas Parnell.
SYLVIA,
A FRAGMENT.
SYLVIA my heart in wondrous wise alarm'd, Aw'd without sense, and without beauty charm'd: But some odd graces and some flights she had, Was just not ugly, and was just not mad: Her tongue still ran on credit from her eyes, More pert than witty, more a wit than wise: Goodnature, she declar'd it, was her scorn, Tho' 'twas by that alone she could be born: Affronting all, yet fond of a good name; A fool to pleasure, yet a slave to fame: Now coy, and studious in no point to fall, Now all agog for D——y at a ball: Now deep in Taylor, and the Book of Martyrs, Now drinking citron with his grace and Chartres. Men, some to business, some to pleasure take; But ev'ry woman's in her soul a rake. Frail, fev'rish sex! their fit now chills, now burns: Atheism and superstition rule by turns; And the mere heathen in her carnal part Is still a sad good Christian in her heart.
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 17/The Alley; an Imitation of Spencer

This work was probably written by Alexander Pope. See The Works of Alexander Pope (1995). Wordsworth Edition Ltd. p. 4.
THE ALLEY.
AN IMITATION OF SPENCER.
I.
IN ev'ry town where Thamis rolls his tide, A narrow pass there is, with houses low; Where ever and anon the stream is eyed, And many a boat soft sliding to and fro: There oft are heard the notes of infant woe. The short thick sob, loud scream, and shriller squall: How can ye, mothers, vex your children so? Some play, some eat, some cack against the wall, And, as they crouchen low, for bread and butter call.
II.
And on the broken pavement here and there Doth many a stinking sprat and herring lie; A brandy and tobacco shop is near, And hens, and dogs, and hogs, are feeding by: And here a sailor's jacket hangs to dry; At every door are sunburnt matrons seen, Mending old nets to catch the scaly fry; Now singing shrill, and scolding oft between; Scolds answer foulmouth'd scolds; bad neighbourhood, I ween.
III.
The snappish cur (the passenger's annoy) Close at my heel with yelping treble flies; The whimpering girl and hoarser screaming boy Join to the yelping treble shrilling cries; The scolding quean to louder notes doth rise, ​And her full pipes those shrilling cries confound; To her full pipes the grunting hog replies; The grunting hogs alarm the neighbours round, And curs, girls, boys, and scolds, in the deep base are drown'd.
IV.
Hard by a sty, beneath a roof of thatch, Dwelt Obloquy, who in her early days Baskets of fish at Billingsgate did watch, Cod, whiting, oyster, mackrel, sprat, or plaice: There learn'd she speech from tongues that never cease. Slander, beside her, like a magpie chatters, With Envy (spitting cat) dread foe to peace; Like a curs'd cur, Malice before her clatters, And, vexing ev'ry wight, tears clothes and all to tatters.
V.
Her dugs were mark'd by ev'ry collier's hand, Her mouth was black as bulldog's at the stall: She scratched, bit, and spar'd ne lace ne band; And bitch and rogue her answer was to all; Nay, e'en the parts of shame by name would call. Whene'er she passed by a lane or nook, Would greet the man who turn'd him to the wall, And by his hand obscene the porter took, Nor ever did askance like modest virgin look.
VI.
Such place hath Deptford, navy-building town; Woolwich and Wapping, smelling strong of pitch: ​Such Lambeth, envy of each band and gown; And Twickenham such, which fairer scenes enrich, Grots, statues, urns, and Jo—n's dog and bitch; Ne village is without, on either side, All up the silver Thames, or all adown; Ne Richmond's self, from whose tall front are ey'd Vales, spires, meandring streams, and Windsor's tow'ry pride.
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 17/Prologue Designed for Mr. D'Urfy's Last Play

This work was probably written by Alexander Pope. See The Works of Alexander Pope (1995). Wordsworth Edition Ltd. p.360.
PROLOGUE
DESIGNED FOR MR. D'URFY'S LAST PLAY.
GROWN old in rhyme, 'twere barbarous to discard Your persevering, unexhausted bard: Damnation follows death in other men, But your damn'd poet lives, and writes again. Th' adventurous lover is successful still, Who strives to please the fair against her will: Be kind, and make him in his wishes easy, Who in your own despite has strove to please ye. He scorn'd to borrow from the wits of yore, But ever writ, as none e'er writ before. You modern wits, should each man bring his claim, Have desperate debentures on your fame; And little would be left you, I'm afraid, If all your debts to Greece and Rome were paid. ​From his deep fund our author largely draws, Nor sinks his credit lower than it was. Tho' plays for honour in old time he made, 'Tis now for better reasons — to be paid. Believe him, he has known the world too long, And seen the death of much immortal song. He says, poor poets lost, while players won, As pimps grow rich, while gallants are undone. Tho' Tom the poet writ with ease and pleasure, The comick Tom abounds in other treasure. Fame is at best an unperforming cheat; But 'tis substantial happiness, to eat. Let ease, his last request, be of your giving, Nor force him to be damn'd to get his living.
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 17/Sandys's Ghost

This work was probably written by Alexander Pope. See The Works of Alexander Pope (1995). Wordsworth Edition Ltd. p. 364.
SANDYS'S GHOST:
OR,
A PROPER NEW BALLAD
ON THE
NEW OVID'S METAMORPHOSES,
AS IT WAS INTENDED TO BE TRANSLATED BY PERSONS OF QUALITY.
YE lords and commons, men of wit And pleasure about town, Read this, ere you translate one bit Of books of high renown.
Beware of Latin authors all! Nor think your verses sterling, Though with a golden pen you scrawl, And scribble in a berlin:
For not the desk with silver nails, Nor bureau of expense, Nor standish well japann'd, avails To writing of good sense.
Hear how a ghost in dead of night, With saucer eyes of fire, In woful wise did sore affright A wit and courtly 'squire.
​Rare imp of Phoebus, hopeful youth! Like puppy tame, that uses To fetch and carry in his mouth The works of all the Muses.
Ah! why did he write poetry, That hereto was so civil; And sell his soul for vanity To rhyming and the devil?
A desk he had of curious work, With glittering studs about; Within the same did Sandys lurk, Though Ovid lay without.
Now, as he scratch'd to fetch up thought, Forth popp'd the sprite so thin, And from the keyhole bolted out All upright as a pin.
With whiskers, band, and pantaloon, And ruff compos'd most duly, This 'squire he dropp'd his pen full soon, While as the light burnt bluely.
Ho! master Sam, quoth Sandys' sprite, Write on, nor let me scare ye; Forsooth, if rhymes fall not in right, To Budgel seek, or Carey.
I hear the beat of Jacob's drums, Poor Ovid finds no quarter! ​See first the merry P— comes In haste without his garter.
Then lords and lordlings, 'squires and knights, Wits, witllngs, prigs, and peers: Garth at St. James's, and at White's, Beats up for volunteers.
What Fenton will not do, nor Gay, Nor Congreve, Rowe, nor Stanyan, Tom Burnet or Tom D'Urfy may, John Dunton, Steel, or any one.
If justice Philips' costive head Some frigid rhymes disburses; They shall like Persian tales be read, And glad both babes and nurses.
Let Warwick's Muse with Ash—t join, And Ozel's with lord Hervey's, Tickell and Addison combine, And Pope translate with Jervis.
L— himself, that lively lord, Who bows to every lady, Shall join with F— in one accord, And be like Tate and Brady.
Ye ladies, too, draw forth your pen; I pray, where can the hurt lie? Since you have brains as well as men, As witness lady Wortley.
Now, Tonson, list thy forces all, Review them and tell noses: For to poor Ovid shall befal A strange metamorphosis;
​A metamorphosis more strange Than all his books can vapour — "To what (quoth 'squire) shall Ovid change?" Quoth Sandys, "To waste paper."
# Thom's Irish Who's Who/Stewart, Brig.-Gen. Cosmo Gordon

​STEWART, Brig.-Gen. Cosmo Gordon, C.M.G. (1915), D.S.O. (1895); served in Chitral, 1895; Egypt, 1897-8; Nile Expedition, 1899; S. African War, 1901-2; European War, 1914-19; G.S.O., 1st grade, 1919-20; Brig.-Gen. R. A. from 1920; eighth son of late Sir John Marcus Stewart, 3rd Bart., of Athenry, Co. Tyrone; b. 1869; m. 1911: Gladys, dau. of late J. H. Honeyman, M.D., of Auckland, New Zealand, and has issue one son. Naval and Military Club, London.
# Thom's Irish Who's Who/Stewart, Capt. Charles Frederick

​STEWART, Capt. Charles Frederick, D.L., J.P., Co. Donegal; late Capt. 5th Batt. Royal Inniskilling Fus.; eldest son of late Charles Frederick Stewart, D.L., J.P., of Horn Head, Co. Donegal, and 1st wife, Elizabeth (d. 1881), dau. of late Rev, Thos. Lindesay; b. 1870; m. 1st, 1899, Alice (d. 1907), eldest dau. of late Capt. John K. Humfrey, 53rd Regt., of Cavanacor, Co. Donegal; 2nd, 1910, Hildegarde, eldest dau. of Frederick Lindesay, of Waverley Road, Liverpool. Res.: Horn Head, Dunfanaghy, Co. Donegal.
# Thom's Irish Who's Who/Stewart, Sir Hugh Houghton

​STEWART, Sir Hugh Houghton, 4th Bart. (Unit. Kgd., 1803), Major, Res. of Officers; Brig.-Gen, Comdg. 77th Brigade, 1914-15, in European War: late Lieut.-Col. commanding 4th Batt. Royal Inniskilling Fusiliers, late Capt. 2nd Batt. Royal Irish Rifles; commanded 22nd Batt. I. Yeo. and 3rd Batt. Essex Regt. South Africa, 1901-02; Brig.-Gen. European War, Comdg. 77th Inf. Brig., 1914-15; D.L, J.P. Co. Tyrone (High Sheriff, 1903); son of Sir John Marcus, 3rd Bart., and Annie Coote (Lady Stewart), dau. and co-heir of the late George Powell Houghton, of Kilmallock House, Co. Wexford; b. 15th Sept., 1858; s. his father, 27th Feb., 1905; m. 28th August, 1915, Amy, widow of Frederick Charles Caldwell and dau. of late Walpole Eyre Greenwell. Res.: 101 Ashley Gardens, London, S.W.; Lough Macrory Lodge, Co. Tyrone. Naval and Military Club, S.W.
# Thom's Irish Who's Who/Stewart, Col. Albert Fortescue

​STEWART, Col. Albert Fortescue, C.M.G. (1918), O.B.E. (1919); Col. Suffolk Regt.; served in W. Africa, 1901-02; European War, 1914-19: seventh son of Sir John Marcus Stewart, 3rd Bart., of Athenry, Co. Tyrone; b. 1868; m. 1902, Rita, third dau. of late Rt. Hon. Jonathan Christian, Lord Justice of Appeal in Ireland. Res.: * * *
# Thom's Irish Who's Who/Stewart, Sir Harry Jocelyn Urquhart

​STEWART, Sir Harry Jocelyn Urquhart, Baronet (Irld., 1623): late Major Donegal Artillery, S. Div. R.A.; D.L., J.P., Co. Donegal (High Sheriff, 1905); younger son of the late William Molloy Stewart, and Ellen, widow of F. Berkeley Drummond, B.C.S., and dau. of W. H. Urquhart; b. 1871; s. his brother, Sir William, as 11th Bart., 4th Jan., 1894; m. 12th August, 1896, Isabel Mary, dau. of Lieut.-Col. F. S. Mansfield, D.L., and has issue four sons and five daus. Res.: Homecroft, Linden Road, Bedford; Fort Stewart, Ramelton, Co. Donegal.
# Thom's Irish Who's Who/Stoker, Graves

​STOKER, Graves, Fellow and Ex-Member of Council, R.C.S.I. Educ.: Bective College, Dublin; R.C.S.I., T.C.D.; London, Berlin, and Vienna: late Chief Surgeon (attached R.A.M.C), The Military Hospital, Rochester Row, London; Assist. Surgeon, St. Paul's Hospital: late Surgeon Cork Street and Drumcondra Hospitals, Dublin; Consulting Surgeon Great Northern Railway, Dublin; Fellow Royal Acad. of Medicine, Ireland: Consulting Surgeon, Mrs. Falkner's Red Cross Hospital for Officers, Montpelier Square, S.W. Pubns.: variety of surgical subjects. Recn.: golf; son of late E. A. Stoker, M.D., F.R.C.S., of Dublin; b. 1864; m. 1903, Constance, M.B., dau. of Andrew Vennet, of Ardwell, Forfar, Scotland, and has issue two sons and three daus. Res.: 14 Hertford Street, Mayfair, London, W.1. Clubs: Royal Automobile; Junior CJonstitutional.
# Thom's Irish Who's Who/Stewart, Sir Charles John

​STEWART, Sir Charles John, K.B.E. (1918); Barrister Inner Temple, 1883; was Senior Official Receiver Companies Winding-up, 1890-97: Clerk of the London County Council, 1897-1900: Chairman of S. Allsopp and Sons, 1900-07; Public Trustee, 1907-19. Recns.: hunting, shooting and fishing; fourth son of John Vandeleur Stewart, of Rock Hill, Co. Donegal: b. 1851: m. 1884, Lady Mary Catherine Graham Toler, dau. of 3rd Earl of Norbury, and has issue three daus. Res: 24 Eccleston Square, London, S.W.; Rockhill, Co. Donegal.