OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# The Spirit of the Nation/The Patriot's Wife

THE PATRIOT'S WIFE.
There is a tradition amongst the Swiss of the Canton of Uri, that the wife of the tyrant Gessler, disgusted at the atrocities perpetrated by her husband, fled him, and as she was of Swiss extraction, made a vow never to return to him. The tyrant, however, succeeded in capturing her; and the following verses record the dialogue, which is often repeated by the Swiss hearth, when the peasant recounts to his children the glories and achievements of William Tell.
"How changed art thou since last we met! Thy brow is wan—thy smile is cold; Stern grief her seal has on thee set— Thou art not what thou wert of old!
"No joy now flashes from that eye, Which once around shed charms of light; That voice once sweet can now but sigh: Oh, Heavens! whence came this sudden blight?
"Say wilt thou tell?—great God! how strange That beauty thus could pass away, And mirth to deepest sorrow change More quickly than the tomb's decay!
"Yes; tell me if the memory lives Of early loves and sun-bright years— If thought but one faint flickering gives— Whence all these woes and burning tears?"
"Nay, do not ask—to tell were vain— My grief not Heaven itself can 'suage; Nor seraph's breath could cool my pain, Nor quench my bosom's burning rage.
​"My country, prey to tyrant bands— Her glories gone—her brave ones dead— Her daughter slain by traitor's hands— And ask'st thou why my joy is sped?
"'Fore Heaven, I prize this faded form, E'en in its ghastly features, more Than when thou won it young and warm, And it alone to worship swore.
"For now I make thee, tyrant, tremble O'er all the ruin thou hast made; In vain thou seekest to dissemble— Oh! curse thy bloody heart and blade.
"And cursed may her ashes be Who basely sold my maiden hand To him who crushed our liberty, And drowned in blood my fatherland."
# The Spirit of the Nation/The Saxon Massacre

THE SAXON MASSACRE.
The sword of the Saxon with slaughter is red— But the blood on his blade in no battle was shed; For—Heavens! the babe, and the maid, and the mother, Have shared the same fate with the sire and the brother! ​It is not the blush by the morning sun spread That tints the horizon so luridly red— It is not the heath on the mountain side high, Whose blaze flings the glare on the far-flushing sky— 'Tis the flame of the village illumines the air, Where the shriek of the maiden, in madden'd despair, Pleads to the heart of the monsters in vain, Who are dyed with the blood of her kindred slain!
Spare! spare them, cursed Wilmot! the heroes who lie On those gore crimson'd couches, unfriended, to die! To the helpless—the fallen—some pity extend— They fought but their altars and homes to defend! Behold their deep wounds!—they are foes—but they're men!— You never will blench at their onset again! 'Tis vain, the lone war-steed that gasps on the plain, When midnight broods over the dying and slain, As well might expect the gaunt wolves to forbear, As the hope of the merciless Saxon to spare!
# The Spirit of the Nation/The Shan Van Vocth, 1176

THE SHAN BHEAN BHOCTH OF 1176.
Air—"The Shan ḃean Boċṫ."
I.
The sainted isle of old, Says the Shan bhean Bhocth; The sainted isle of old, Says the Shan bhean Bhocth. The parent and the mould, Of the beautiful and bold, Has her blithesome heart waxed cold, Says the Shan bhean Bhocth.
II.
The Saxon and the Dane, Says the Shan bhean Bhocth; The Saxon and the Dane, Says the Shan bhean Bhocth, The Saxon and the Dane, Our immortal hills profane, Oh! accurs'd be the twain, Says the Shan bhean Bhocth.
III.
What are the Chiefs to do? Says the Shan bhean Bhocth; What are the Chiefs to do? Says she Shan bhean Bhocth. What should the Chieftains do, But to treat the hireling crew, To a touch of Brian Boru? Says the Shau bhean Bhocth.
IV.
They came across the wave, Says the Shan bhean Bhocth; They came across the wave, Says the Shan bhean Bhocth. They came across the wave, But to plunder and enslave, And should find a robber's grave, Says the Shan bhean Bhocth.
V.
Then be the trusty brand, Says the Shan bhean Bhocth; Then be the trusty brand, Says the Shan bhean Bhocth. Then be the trusty brand, Firmly clutch'd in every hand, And we'll scourge them from the land, Says the Shan bhean Bhocth.
VI.
There's courage yet and truth, Says the Shan bhean Bhocth; There's courage yet and truth, Says the Shan bhean Bhocth. There's a God above us all, And whatever may befall, No invader shall enthral, Says the Shan bhean Bhocth.
# The Spirit of the Nation/The Munster War Song

THE MUNSTER WAR-SONG.
A.D. 1190
Τα οπλα ας λαβωμεν παιδες Ἑλληνων αγωμεν. ποταμιδων εχθρων το αιμα ας τρεζη υπο ποδων.
Riga.
I.
Can the depths of the ocean afford you not graves, That you come thus to perish afar o'er the waves; To redden and swell the wild torrents that flow, Through the valley of vengeance, the dark Aharlow?
II.
The clangour of conflict o'erburthens the breeze, From the stormy Slieve Bloom to the stately Galtees; Your caverns and torrents are purple with gore, Slievenamon, Glencoloe, and sublime Galtymore!
III.
The sun-burst that slumbered embalmed in our tears, Tipperary! shall wave o'er thy tall mountaineers! And the dark hill shall bristle with sabre and spear, While one tyrant remains to forge manacles here.
IV.
The riderless war-steed careers o'er the plain With a shaft in his flank and a blood dripping mane, His gallant breast labours, and glare his wild eyes; He plunges in torture—falls—shivers—and dies.
V.
Let the trumpets ring triumph! the tyrant is slain, He reels o'er his charger deep pierced through the brain; And his myriads are flying like leaves on the gale, But, who shall escape from our hills with the tale?
VI.
For the arrows of vengeance are show'ring like rain, And choke the strong rivers with islands of slain, Till thy waves, "lordly Shannon," all crimsonly flow, Like the billows of hell with the blood of the foe.
VII.
Aye! the foemen are flying, but vainly they fly— Revenge, with the fleetness of lightning, can vie; And the septs of the mountains spring up from each rock, And rush down the ravines like wolves on the flock.
VIII.
And who shall pass over the stormy Slieve Bloom, To tell the pale Saxon of tyranny's doom; When, like tigers from ambush, our fierce mountaineers, Leap along from the crags with their death-dealing spears?
IX.
They came with high boasting to bind us as slaves; But the glen and the torrent have yawned for their graves— From the gloomy Ardfinnan to wild Templemore— From the Suir to the Shannon—is red with their gore.
X.
By the soul of Heremon! our warriors may smile, To remember the march of the foe through our isle; ​Their banners and harness were costly and gay, And proudly they flash'd in the summer sun's ray;
XI.
The hilts of their falchions were crusted with gold, And the gems of their helmets were bright to behold, By Saint Bride of Kildare! but they moved in fair show— To gorge the young eagles of dark Aharlow!
# The Spirit of the Nation/The Peasant Girls

THE PEASANT GIRLS.
The Peasant Girl of merry France, Beneath her trellis'd vine, Watches the signal for the dance— The broad, red sun's decline. ​'Tis there—and forth she flies with glee To join the circling band, Whilst mirthful sounds of minstrelsy Are heard throughout the land.
And fair Italia's Peasant Girl, The Arno's banks beside, With myrtle flowers that shine like pearl, Will braid at eventide Her raven locks; and to the sky, With eyes of liquid light, Look up and bid her lyre outsigh— "Was ever land so bright?"
The Peasant Girl of England, see With lip of rosy dye, Beneath her sheltering cottage tree, Smile on each passer by. She looks on fields of yellow grain, Inhales the bean-flower's scent, And seems, amid the fertile plain, An Image of content.
The Peasant Girl of Scotland goes Across her Highland hill, With cheek that emulates the rose, And voice the skylark's thrill. Her tartan plaid she folds around, A many-coloured vest— Type of what varied joys have found A home in her kind breast.
The Peasant Girl of Ireland, she Has left her cabin home, Bearing white wreaths—what can it be Invites her thus to roam? Her eye has not the joyous ray Should to her years belong; And, as she wends her languid way, She carols no sweet song.
​Oh! soon upon the step and glance Grief does the work of age; And it has been her hapless chance To open that dark page. The happy harvest home was o'er, The fierce tithe-gatherer came; And her young lover, in his gore, Fell by a murderous aim!
Then, well may youth's bright glance be gone For ever from that eye, And soon will sisters weep upon The grave that she kneels by; And well may prouder hearts than those, That there place garlands, say— "Have Ireland's peasant girls such woes?— When will they pass away?"
# The Spirit of the Nation/The Saxon Shilling

THE SAXON SHILLING.
I.
Hark! a martial sound is heard— The march of soldiers, fifing, drumming; Eyes are staring, hearts are stirr'd— For bold recruits the brave are coming. Ribands flaunting, feathers gay— The sounds and sighs are surely thrilling, Dazzl'd village youths to-day Will crowd to take the Saxon Shilling.
II.
Ye, whose spirits will not bow In peace to parish tyrants longer— Ye, who wear the villain brow, And ye who pine in hopeless hunger— Fools, without the brave man's faith— All slaves and starvlings who are willing To sell yourselves to shame and death— Accept the fatal Saxon Shilling.
III.
Ere you from your mountains go To feel the scourge of foreign fever, Swear to serve the faithless foe That lures you from your land for ever! Swear henceforth its tools to be— To slaughter trained by ceaseless drilling— Honour, home, and liberty, Abandon'd for a Saxon Shilling.
IV.
Go—to find, 'mid crime and toil, The doom to which such guilt is hurried; Go—to leave on Indian soil Your bones to bleach, accurs'd, unburied! Go—to crush the just and brave, Whose wrongs with wrath the world are filling; Go—to slay each brother slave, Or spurn the blood-stained Saxon Shilling!
V.
Irish hearts! why should you bleed, To swell the tide of British glory— Aiding despots in their need, Who've changed our green so oft to gory? None, save those who wish to see The noblest killed, the meanest killing, And true hearts severed from the free, Will take again the Saxon Shilling!
VI.
Irish youths! reserve your strength Until an hour of glorious duty, When Freedom's smile shall cheer at length The land of bravery and beauty. Bribes and threats, oh, heed no more— Let nought but Justice make you willing To leave your own dear Island shore, For those who send the Saxon Shilling.
# The Spirit of the Nation/The Nation's First Number

THE NATION'S FIRST NUMBER.
I.
'Tis a great day, and glorious, O Public! for you— This October Fifteenth, Eighteen Forty and Two! For on this day of days, lo! The Nation comes forth, To commence its career of Wit, Wisdom, and Worth— To give Genius its due—to do battle with Wrong— And achieve things undreamed of as yet, save in song, Then arise! fling aside your dark mantle of slumber, And welcome in chorus The Nation's First Number.
II.
Here we are, thanks to Heaven, in an epoch when Mind Is unfettering our captives and couching our blind; And the Press with its thunders keeps marring the mirth Of those tyrants and bigots that curse our fair earth. Be it ours to stand forth and contend in the van, Of truth's legions for freedom, that birthright of man, Shaking off the dull cobwebs that else might encumber Our weapon—the pen—in The Nation's First Number.
III.
We announce a New Era—be this our first news— When the serf-grinding Landlords shall shake in their shoes; While the ark of a bloodless yet migthy Reform Shall emerge from the flood of the Popular Storm! Well we know how the lickspittle panders to Power, Feel and fear the approach of that death-dealing hour; But we toss these aside—such vile vagabond lumber Are but just worth a groan from The Nation's First Number.
IV.
Though we take not for motto, Nul n'a de l'esprit, (As they once did in Paris) hors nos bons amis, We may boast that for first-rate endowments, our band Form a phalanx unmatched in—or out of—the land. ​Poets, Patriots, Linguists, with reading like Parr's— Critics keener than sabres—Wits brighter than stars; And Reasoners as cool as the coolest cu-cumber Form the host that shine out in The Nation's First Number.
V.
We shall sketch living manners—and men—in a style That will scarcely be sneez'd at, we guess, for a while; Build up stories as fast as of yore Mother Bunch, And for Fun of all twists take the shine out of "Punch;" Thus our Wisdom and Quizdom will finely agree Very much, Public dear, we conceive as you see Do the lights and the shades that illume and adumber Each beautiful page in the Nation's First Number.
VI.
A word more:—To Old Ireland our first love is given; Still, our friendship hath arms for all lands under Heaven. We are Irish—we vaunt it—all o'er and all out; But we wish not that England shall "sneak up the spout!" Then, O Public! here, there, and elsewhere through the world, Wheresoe'er Truth's and Liberty's flags are unfurl'd, From the Suir to the Tweed, from the Boyne to the Humber, Raise one Shout of Applause for The Nation's First Number!
# The Spirit of the Nation/The Rath of Mullaghmast

THE RATH OF MULLAGHMAST.
I.
O'er the Rath of Mullaghmast, On the solemn midnight blast, What bleeding spectres pass'd, With their gash'd breasts bare? Hast thou heard the fitful wail That o'erloads the sullen gale, When the waning moon shines pale O'er the curs'd ground there?
II.
Hark! hollow moans arise Thro' the black tempestuous skies, And curses, strife, and cries, From the lone Rath swell; For bloody Sydney, there, Nightly fills the lurid air With th' unholy pomp and glare Of the foul, deep hell.
III.
He scorches up the gale, With his knights, in fiery mail; And the banners of the Pale O'er the red ranks rest. But a wan and gory band All apart and silent stand, And they point th' accusing hand At that hell-hound's crest!
IV.
Red streamlets, trickling slow, O'er their clotted cooluns flow, And still and awful woe On their pale brows weeps— ​Rich bowls bestrew the ground, And broken harps around, Whose once enchanting sound In the bard's blood sleeps.
V.
False Sydney! knighthood's stain, The trusting brave in vain— Thy guests—ride o'er the plain To thy dark cow'rd snare. Flow'r of Offaly and Leix, They have come thy board to grace— Fools! to meet a faithless race Save with true swords bare.
VI.
While cup and song abound, The triple lines surround The clos'd and guarded mound, In the night's dark noon. Alas! too brave O'More, Ere the revelry was o'er They have spill'd thy young heart's gore, Snatch'd from love too soon!
VII.
At the feast, unarm'd all, Priest, bard, and chieftain fall In the treacherous Saxon's hall, O'er the bright wine bowl; And now nightly round the board, With unsheath'd and reeking sword, Strides the cruel, felon lord Of the blood-stain'd soul.
VIII.
Since that hour the clouds that pass'd O'er the Rath of Mullaghmast, One tear have never cast On the gore-dyed sod; ​For the shower of crimson rain, That o'erflow'd that fatal plain, Cries aloud, and not in vain, To the most high God.
IX.
Tho' the Saxon snake unfold At thy feet his scales of gold, And vow thee love untold, Trust him not, Green Land; Touch not with gloveless clasp A coil'd and deadly asp, But with strong and guarded grasp In your steel-clad hand.
# The Spirit of the Nation/The Slaves' Bill

THE SLAVES' BILL.
Aye, brand our arms, nor them alone; But brand our brows, degraded race Oh, how a fear can England own Of men, who cannot feel disgrace? Men! Are we men? We talk as such, Heav'ns, how we talk! but vain alarms— Nought masculine endures so much, Then brand our brows, as well as arms!
This brand is not an ugly thing— May seem an ornament, indeed; The shame to some would be the sting, But not to slaves who dare not bleed! Six hundred weary years have pass'd, And which, without some newer harms From Dear Old England! This, the last, Is but an insult—brand our arms!
Yes, brand our language, faith, and name! Black down time's river let them roll; Let Erin be a word of shame, And burn its mem'ry from my soul! Oh! Erin, Erin!—never more That darling name let me repeat! If such the sons my mother bore, West Briton were as sound as sweet.
Aye, brand us all! yet still we crave A pittance at our master's door; Then leave the wealthy Irish slave His club, his bottle, and ——; And leave the wretched serf, his wife— You may, (she has not many charms,) Potatoes, and his paltry life; But, leave us not—ev'n branded arms!
Mad as ye are, who reckless dare To mock the spirit God hath giv'n, ​Pause, ere ye drive us in despair To its appeal—from man to heaven! From calmer eyes the furies glare, And colder bosoms vengeance warms, Till rage finds weapons, ev'ry where, For Nature's two unbranded arms!
# The Riverside song book/To stay at Home is best

Layout 2
# The Riverside song book/The Summers come and go

Layout 2
THE SUMMERS COME AND GO.
Bayard Taylor. Johann A. P. Schulz.
1. Now the days are brief and drear: Na - ked
2. Leave the clash - ing cym - bals mute! Pipe no 3. Where is Youth? He strayed a - way Thro' the
4. Yet a few more years to run, Wheel - ing
lies the new - born Year, In his crad - dle of the
more the hap - py flute! Sing no more that dan - cing
mead - ow flow'rs of May; Where is Love? The leaves that
sound in gloom and sun: Oth - er rap - tures, oth - er
snow; And the winds un - bri - dled blow, And the
rhyme Of the ro - se's har - vest time; Sing a
fell From his tryst-ing - bow'r, can tell. Wis - dom
woes,— Toil al - ter - nate with Re - pose: Then to ​
dim.
skies hang dark and low,— For the Sum - mers come and go. re - quiem, sad and low, For the Sum - mers come and go.
stays, se - date and slow: And the Sum - mers come and go.
sleep where dai - sies grow, While the Sum - mers come and go.
# The Riverside song book/The Voyagers

Layout 2
THE VOYAGERS.
Bayard Taylor. Friedrich Silcher.
Moderato. (Air: Die Lorelei.)
1. No long-er spread the sail! No long - er strain the oar!
2. Each morn we see its peaks, Made beau - ti - ful with snow;
3. And still the keel is swift, And still the wind is free,
4. O shipmates, leave the ropes. And what tho' no one steers,
For nev - er yet has blown the gale Will bring us near- er shore.
Each eve its vales and wind - ing creeks, That sleep in mist be - low.
And still as far its moun- tains lift Be - yond th' en-chanted sea.
We sail no fast - er for our hopes, No slow - er for our fears.
The sway-ing keel slides on, The helm o - beys the hand;
At noon we mark the gleam Of tem - ples tall and fair;
Yet vain is all re - turn, Though false the goal be - fore;
How- e'er the bark is blown. Lie down and sleep a - while:
Fast we have sailed from dawn to dawn, Yet nev - er reach the land.
At mid - night watch its bon - fires stream In the au - ro - ral air.
The gale is ev - er dead a - stern, The cur - rent sets to shore.
What prof- its toil, when chance a - lone Can bring us to the isle?
# The Riverside song book/To Mother Fairie

Layout 2
TO MOTHER FAIRIE.
Alice Cary. Unknown.
(Air: What’s a’ the steer, Kimmer?)
Recitativo
1. Good old moth - er Fair - ie, Sit - ting by your
2. To chase a - way the shad-ows That make her moan and
Recitativo
fire, Have you an - y lit - tle folk
weep, To sing her lov - ing lul - la - bies, And
You would like to hire? I want no chub - by drudg- es To
kiss her eyes a - sleep; And when in dreams she reach- es For
milk, and churn, and spin, Nor old and wrink-led Brown-ies, With
pleas - ures dead and gone, To hold her was - ted fin - gers. And
gris - ly beards, and thin: But pa - tient lit - tle
make the rings stay on. They must be ver - y
peo - ple, With hands of bus - y care, And
cun - ning To make the fu - ture shine Like
gen - tle speech, and lov - ing hearts; Say, have you such to spare?
leaves, and flow’rs, and strawber-ries, A grow - ing on one vine;
I know a poor, pale bod - y, Who can - not sleep at night,
So good old moth-er Fai - rie. Since now my need you know,
And I want the lit - tle peo-ple To keep her cham - ber bright.
Tell me, have you a - ny folk, Who are wise e- nough to go?
# The Riverside song book/There is no End for Souls like his

From the poem Charles Sumner
Layout 2
THERE IS NO END FOR SOULS LIKE HIS.
John Greenleaf Whittier. Joseph B. Sharland.
Andante. (Not slow.)
1. Re - vive a - gain, thou sum - mer rain, The bro - ken turf up -
2. With calm and beau-ty sym - bo - lize The peace which fol - lows
3. For safe with right and truth he is, As God lives he must
on his bed! Breathe, sum - mer wind, thy ten - d'rest strain Of
long an - noy, And lend our earth - bent, mourn-ing eyes Some
live al - way; There is no end for souls like his, No
low, sweet mu - sic o - ver - head, sweet mu - sic o - ver - head!
hint of his di - vin - er joy, of his di - vin - er joy.
night for chil - dren of the day, for chil - dren of the day!
# The Riverside song book/Thine Eyes still shined

Layout 2
THINE EYES STILL SHINED.
Ralph Waldo Emerson. Konradin Kreutzer.
mf
1. Thine eyes still shined for me, tho' far I
2. When the red - bird spread his sa - ble wing, And
mp
roved the land or sea: As I be - hold yon
showed his side of flame; When the rose-bud ri - pened
even - ing star, Which yet be - holds not me. This
to the rose, In both I read thy name. Thine
morn I climbed the mist-y hill And roam'd the pas - tures through; How
eyes still shined for me, tho' far I roved the land or sea: As
danced thy form be - fore my path, A - midst the deep - eyed dew!
I be - hold yon even-ing star. Which yet be-holds not me.
# The Riverside song book/The Sword of Bunker Hill

Layout 2
THE SWORD OF BUNKER HILL.
William Ross Wallace. Bernard Covert.
Moderato.
1. He lay up - on his dy - ing bed; His eye was growing
2. The sword was brought, the sol-dier's eye Lit with a sud - den
3. "'Twas on that dread, im - mor-tal day, I dared the Brit - on's
4. "O, keep the sword"— his ac - cents broke—A smile — and he was
dim, When with a fee - ble voice he called His
flame; And as he grasped the an - cient blade, He
band, A cap - tain raised this blade on me,— I
dead— But his wrin - kled hand still grasped the blade Up-
weeping son to him: 'Weep not, my boy! " the vet-'ran said, "I
murmered War-ren's name: Then said, "My boy, I leave you gold— But
tore it from his hand: And while the glo - rious bat - tle raged, It
on that dy - ing bed. The son re-mains; the sword re- mains— Its ​
bow to Heav'n's high will — But quickly from yon airt - lers bring The
what is rich - er still, I leave you, mark me, mark me now— The
light - ened freedom's will— For, boy, The God of freedom blessed The
glo - ry grow - ing still— And twen-ty mil - lions bless the sire. And
Sword of Bun - ker Hill; But quick-ly from yon
Sword of Bun - ker Hill; I leave you, mark me,
Sword of Bun - ker Hill; For, boy, the God of
Sword of Bun - ker Hill; And twen-ty mil - lions
ant - lers bring The Sword of Bun - ker Hill."
mark me now — The Sword of Bun - ker Hill."
free - dom blessed The Sword of Bun - ker Hill."
bless the sire, And Sword of Bun - ker Hill."