OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# The American Cyclopædia (1879)/Kings

Edition of 1879. See also Brooklyn on Wikipedia; and the disclaimer.
KINGS, a S. E. county of New York, forming the W. extremity of Long Island; area, 72 sq. m.; pop. in 1870, 419,921. It lies between the East river and New York harbor and the Atlantic ocean, embracing several small islands adjacent to the coast. A range of drift hills, from 50 to 300 ft. above tide water, crosses it from S. W. to N. E. The soil is a light sandy loam, capable of varied cultivation. The South Side railroad of Long Island, the Brooklyn, Bath, and Coney Island railroad, and the Brooklyn Central branch of the Long Island railroad pass through it. The chief productions in 1870 were 44,600 bushels of Indian corn, 547,375 of potatoes, and 2,057 tons of hay. There were on farms 1,241 horses, 16 mules and asses, 1,148 milch cows, 67 other cattle, and 750 swine. There are numerous manufacturing establishments, chiefly in Brooklyn, the county seat. In 1873 a proposition for the incorporation of the county towns with the city of Brooklyn was submitted to a popular vote, which resulted adversely.
# The American Cyclopædia (1879)/Kinic Acid

Edition of 1879. See also Quinic acid on Wikipedia; and the disclaimer.
KINIC ACID, also called cinchonic and quinic acid, a substance obtained in combination with lime in evaporating the infusion of Peruvian bark to a solid consistence, and treating the extract with alcohol. If an aqueous decoction of cinchona bark be mixed with milk of lime until it assumes a feebly alkaline reaction, the vegetable bases and the tannic acid are precipitated, and calcic quinate remains in the liquid; this salt may be crystallized from the mother liquor by evaporation, and decomposed by the cautious addition of oxalic or of sulphuric acid. The kinic acid may then be obtained in crystals from the solution in the form of transparent, colorless, rhomboidal plates. These have a sour taste, and readily dissolve in water or alcohol. Their composition is expressed by the formula H,C$_7$H$_{11}$O$_6$. By combining the acid with cinchonia or quinine it is restored to the saline condition in which it existed in the bark, and may thus be applied in medicine in concentrated form more nearly representing the peculiar character of the bark than in the ordinary combinations of the alkaloid with sulphuric or other mineral acid, although the therapeutic advantage of such a combination is by no means proved. Kinic acid by its presence serves to distinguish genuine barks. The method of testing is to boil ¼ oz. of bark with a little lime, and, after pouring off and concentrating the liquor, to commence distilling it in a retort with a mixture of half its weight of sulphuric acid and peroxide of manganese. If kinic acid is present, a volatile substance called kinone or chinone, of yellow color and peculiar odor, the vapor of which is very irritating to the eyes, comes over with the first portions,
and is instantly recognized. The spurious barks having no kinic acid do not afford kinone. It has been ascertained that caffeic acid also yields kinone when treated in the manner above decribed. Kinic acid is said to have been found in the leaves of vaccinium myrtillus. It is onverted in the system into hippuric acid.
# The American Cyclopædia (1879)/Kennedy, Grace

Edition of 1879. See also Grace Kennedy on Wikipedia; and the disclaimer.
KENNEDY, Grace, a Scottish authoress, born in Ayrshire in 1782, died Feb. 28, 1825. She passed the greater part of her life in Edinburgh, and subsequent to 1811 was an industrious writer of works of fiction of a moral and religious character, which were greatly esteemed at home and abroad. Among the most successful were “Decision,” “Father Clement,” “Anna Ross,” “Dunallan,” “Jessie Allan,” &c., nearly all of which have been translated into the French and other languages. Her works were all published under an assumed name.
# The Bunner Sisters

Published in two parts in Scribner's Magazine, Vol 60, October and November 1916; pp. 439–458 and 575–596.
BUNNER SISTERS
BY EDITH WHARTON
* PART I
* Chapter I
* Chapter II
* Chapter III
* Chapter IV
* Chapter V
* Chapter VI
* Chapter VII
* PART II
* Chapter VIII
* Chapter IX
* Chapter X
* Chapter XI
* Chapter XII
* Chapter XIII
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# The Book of Scottish Song/Hey, Jenny

Hey, Jenny.
[This song, to the old tune of "Hey, Jenny, com' down to Jock, has been introduced with success on the Edinburgh stage. It is slightly altered and abridged from the copy which appears in Herd's collection of 1776.]
Jockie he came here to woo, Wi' tartan plaid, and bonnet blue, And Jenny pat on her best array, When she heard that Jocky had come that way. Jenny she gaed up the stair; For Jenny was blate afore unco folk; And aye sae loud as her mither did rare, "Hey, Jenny, come down to Jock."
Jenny she came down the stair, And she cam' bobbin' and beckin' ben; Her stays they were laced, and her wast it was jimp, And a braw new-made manco gown. Jockie took her by the hand "O, Jenny! can ye fancy me? My father's dead, and has left me some land, And braw houses twa or three—
And I will gi'e them a' to thee." "A haith!" quo' Jenny, "I fear you mock." "Then, foul fa' me, gin I scorn thee; If ye'll be my Jenny, I'll be your Jock." Jenny she gaed up the gate, Wi' a green gown as side as her smock; And aye sae loud as her mither did rair "Vow, sirs! hasna Jenny got Jock!"
# The Book of Scottish Song/Here's to the king, sir

Here's to the king, sir.
[Jacobite song.—Tune, "Hey, tuttie taitie."—The allusion in the last verse but one to the king of Sweden proves the song to belong to about the beginning of the last century, when Charles XII. of Sweden was expected to espouse the cause of the Stuarts.]
Here's to the king, sir! Ye ken wha I mean, sir; And to every honest man, That will do't again. Fill, fill your bumpers high; Drain drain your glasses dry; Out upon him, fy! oh ly! That winna do't again.
Here's to the chieftains Of the gallant Highland clans! They ha'e done it mair nor ance, And will do't again. Fill, fill, &c.
When you hear the trumpet sound Tuttie taitie, to the drums; Up wi' swords and down your guns, An' to the loons again. Fill, fill, &c.
Here's to the king o' Swede! Fresh laurels crown his head! Shame fa' every sneaking blade, That winna do't again! Fill, fill, &c.
But to mak' a things right, now, He that drinks maun fight, too, To show his heart's upright, too, And that he'll do't again! Fill, fill, &c
# The Book of Scottish Song/Hey, how, my Johnnie lad

Hey, how, my Johnnie lad.
[This song is partly preserved by Herd in his collection, 1776, but is here given with some slight additions by Allan Cunningham. It is sung to a reel tune, originally called "The Lasses o' the Ferry." Tannahill wrote a song with the same burthen, and to the same tune, which is also given in this work.]
Hey, how, my Johnnie lad, Ye're no sae kind's ye should ha'e been, For gin your voice I had na kent, I'm sure I couldna trust my een; Sae weel's ye might ha'e courted me, And sweetly pree'd my mou' bedeen: Hey, how, my Johnnie lad, Ye're no sae kind's ye should ha'e been.
My father, he was at the pleugh, My mither, she was at the mill; My brother, he was at the moss, And no ane near our sport to spill: A lug to listen was na there, And still less fear o' being seen Hey, how, my Johnnie lad, Ye're no sae kind's ye should ha'e been.
Wad ony lad who lo'ed me weel Ha'e left me a' my liefu' lane, To count the minutes as they crawled, And think life's sweetest moments gane. I wonder what was in your head, I wonder what was in your een, Hey, how, my Johnnie lad, Ye're no sae kind's ye should ha'e been.
But I shall seek some other lad, Whose love is upmost in his mind; As gleg as light, wha has the slight O' kenning when he should be kind. Then ye may woo wi' blinkin' Bess— For you nae mair I'll sigh and green: Hey, how, my Johnnie lad, Ye're no sae kind's ye should ha'e been.
# The Book of Scottish Song/Hey, my bonnie wee lassie

Hey, my bonnie wee lassie.
[From "The Storm and other Poems, by Francis Bennoch." The author entitles his song "Natural Philosophy."]
"Hey, my bonnie wee lassie, Blythe and cheerie wee Lassie, Will ye wed a canty carle, Bonnie, bonnie wee lassie?
"I ha'e sheep an' I ha'e kye, I ha'e wheat an' I ha'e rye, An' heaps of siller, lass, forbye, That ye shall spen' wi' me, lassie! Hey, my bonnie wee lassie, Blythe and cheerie wee lassie, Will ye wed a canty carle, Bonnie, bonnie wee lassie?
"Ye shall dress in damasks fine, My gowd and gear shall a' be thine, And I to ye be ever kind, Say,—will ye marry me, lassie? Hey, my bonnie wee lassie, BIythe and cheerie wee lassie, Will ye wed a canty carle,— Bonnie, smiling wee lassie."
"Gae hame, auld man, an' darn your hose, Fill up your lanky sides wi' brose, An' at the ingle warm your nose, But come na courtin' me, carle. O ye clavering auld carle, Silly, clavering auld carle, The hawk an' doo shall pair, I trow, Before I pair wi' ye, carle!
"Your heart is cauld an' hard as stanes, Ye ha'e nae marrow in your banes, An' siller canna buy the brains That pleasure gi'es to me, carle! O ye tottering auld carle, Silly, clavering auld carle, The hound an' bare may seek ae lair, But I'll no sleep wi' ye, carle.
"I winna share your gowd wi' ye, Your withering heart an' watery e'e; In death I'd sooner shrouded be, Than wedded to ye, auld carle! O ye tottering auld carle, Silly, clavering auld carle, When roses blaw on wreaths o' snaw, I'll bloom upon your breast, carle!
"But there's a lad, an' I'm his ain, May Heaven blessings on him rain! Though plackless, he is unco fain, And he 's the man for me, carle! O youth an' age can ne'er agree; Though rich, you're no the man for me. Gae hame, auld carle, prepare to die; Pray Heaven to be your bride, carle!"
# The Book of Scottish Song/Her kiss was soft

Her kiss was soft.
[James Yool, of Paisley.—Air, "What this heart o' mine."]
Her kiss was soft and sweet, Her smiles were free and fain, And beaming bright the witching glance Of her I thought my ain.
That kiss has poison'd peace, Her smiles have rous'd despair, For kindly though her glances be, They beam on me nae mair.
Now lonely's every haunt That I once trode with joy, And dull and drear the sacred grove Where we were wont to toy.
The rose can please nae mair, The lily seems to fade, And waefu' seems the blackbird's sang, That us'd to cheer the glade.
This bosom once was gay, But now a brow of gloom Pourtrays, in characters of care, That it is pleasure's tomb. ​Yet none shall hear the sigh That struggles to be free, No tear shall trace this sallow cheek, Nor murmur burst from me.
Though silent be my woe, 'Tis not the less severe— Forlorn I brood on former joys To love and mem'ry dear.
She minds na o' the vows That seal'd our youthful love, But heaven has records that will last, My faith and truth to prove.
# The Book of Scottish Song/Here's a health 2

Here’s a health.
[Words by W. H. Freeman. Music by Alex. Lee.]
Here's a health to fair Scotland, the land of the brave! Here's a health to the bold and the free! And as long as the thistle and heather shall wave, Here's a health, bonnie Scotland, to thee: Here's a health to the land of victorious Bruce, And the champions of liberty's cause; And may their examples fresh heroes produce
In defence of our rights and our laws. Here's a health, &c.
Here's a health to the land where bold Wallace unfurl'd His bright banner of conquest and fame— The terror of foeman, the pride of the world!— Long may Scotland hold dearly his name. And still, like their fathers, our brothers are true, And their valour with pleasure we see; Of the wreaths that were won at renowned Waterloo, There's a bough of the laurel for thee. Here's a health, &c.
Here's success to the shamrock, the thistle, the rose, May they ever in harmony twine; And should wily discord again interpose, Let us challenge each other in wine. ​For while we're united foes threaten in vain, And their daring our fame shall increase, Till the banner of Victory o'er land and main, Triumphant is waving in Peace. Here's a health, &c.
# The Collected Poems of Dora Sigerson Shorter/The Enchanted Lake

From The Collected Poems of Dora Sigerson Shorter (1907).
THE ENCHANTED LAKE
I found a dark enchanted lake, That lay within a lonely glade; I stood a moment, held entranced. Hid 'neath the willow's purple shade.
The moon cast down her silver nets, As slow she sailed the misty blue, And in their twisting coil and mesh The leaping waters softly drew.
Like some young nun, vain in the night, The white magnolia blossom bent All timid down her face to view Within that favoured element.
“Why from rough seas did Venus rise, And wherefore let her beauty glow From chill embraces of the wave. If she this fairy spot did know?”
I thought: “From this enchanted lake, That holds the heavens on its heart, Should she have risen in the night And flung the clinging waves apart.”
Lo! as I spoke the purple shade Rang out in some sweet elfin tune, And singing 'neath my gaze, a nymph Flashed in the pale net of the moon.
“Ye gods, look down,” I knelt and cried:
“This scented pool is sure a cup
Lost from your board, upon whose lip
A precious pearl is offered up.
“Or if they sleep, O nymph, on me
Some pity take, and seek the shore,
Or draw me in your white embrace
Down to your home for evermore.”
For one sweet moment did she stand,
A gleaming statue washed in tears;
Her snowy breast alone did tell
The tragic tumult of her fears.
Then, like some bird who feels a wound,
She gave her voice to little cries.
But ere she fluttered to the shade
She looked on me with Laura's eyes.
Ah! This white fairy of the lake,
Who by her magic did entrance,
Held one brief moment my poor heart,
All faithless, only by a glance.
To you, my Laura, ever true,
Who now pass by with much disdain,
And will not listen to my vows,
But let me plead, and plead in vain;
Who turn away with blushing cheek
And head averted at my sigh,
Whose scornful laughter chills my heart,
So that I pine, and soon must die.
Ah! who beside that sheltered lake
Did thus my secret love surprise?
I swear the nymph was nought to me,
Save that she looked with Laura's eyes.
# The Collected Poems of Dora Sigerson Shorter/The Fair Little Maiden

From The Collected Poems of Dora Sigerson Shorter (1907).
THE FAIR LITTLE MAIDEN
“There is one at the door, Wolfe O'Driscoll, At the door, who bids you to come!” “Who is he that wakes me in the darkness, Calling when all the world is dumb?”
“Six horses has he to his carriage. Six horses blacker than the night. And their twelve red eyes in the shadows— Twelve lamps he carries for his light;
“His coach is a herse black and mouldy, Within a coffin open wide: He asks for your soul, Wolfe O'Driscoll, Who doth call at the door outside.”
“Who let him thro' the gates of my gardens, Where stronger bolts have never been?” “The father of the fair little maiden You drove to her grave deep and green.”
“And who let him pass through the courtyard. Loosening the bar and the chain?” “Who but the brother of the maiden Who lies in the cold and the rain!”
“Then who drew the bolts at the portal. And into my house bade him go?” “The mother of the poor yoimg maiden Who lies in her youth all so low.”
“Who stands, that he dare not enter. The door of my chamber, between?” “O, the ghost of the fair little maiden Who lies in the churchyard green.”
# The Collected Poems of Dora Sigerson Shorter/The Enemies

From The Collected Poems of Dora Sigerson Shorter (1907).
THE ENEMIES
I could have sung as sweet as any lark  Who in unfettered skies doth find him blest, And sings to leaning angels prayer and praise,  For in God's garden the most lowly nest.
But came the cares — a grey and stinging throng  Of liliputian foes, whose thrust and dart Did blind my eyes and hush my song in tears;  Their brushing wings flung poison to my heart
I could have fought, in truth, a goodly fight,  Braved death, nor feared defeat before one foe; Against these puny cares I strive in vain.  They sting my soul unto its overthrow.
# The Collected Poems of Dora Sigerson Shorter/The Dead Wife

From The Collected Poems of Dora Sigerson Shorter (1907).
THE DEAD WIFE
Thrice turned she in her narrow bed, His tears disturbed her rest; She kissed the little babe that lay So still upon her breast.
“Dream well,” she said, “my daughter dear, Since I must leave you lone; Three times your father's piteous voice Did make a grievous moan;
“Three times your father's bitter cry Did wake me from my sleep, So must I go and comfort him And bid him not to weep.”
Her fingers chill she did unlace From off her breast so white; “Poor hands,” quoth she, “oft for his sake You toiled a weary night”
She stepped out from her grave so green Upon her feet so slim, “Oft were you wounded on the road Where you did follow him.”
Lone went she up the long boreen Wherein her love did dwell. And there she met a nut-brown maid She once did love full well.
“Now God between us and all harm!” The maid she fearful cried; “I thought you slept within your grave, Your little babe beside.
“I thought you lay all glad in rest Who now doth walk alone; What grief is on your soul, poor ghost, What wrong would you atone?”
“My many sins I do deplore,” The pale young ghost replied; “Yet would I sleep to-night full well My little babe beside.
“From Life's long road all weary I Would hold such sleeping blest, Save for the grief of one who mourns And will not let me rest—
“Save for the tears of one I loved O'er all the world beside, Who held me close unto his breast And named me once his bride.
“I know, as no birds sing for me. He dreads the thrushes' song; Since I am lying in the dark. He thinks the day too long.
“And so I left my little babe All lone in her cold bed, So I might draw him to my side And dry the tears he shed;
“So I might bid him weep no more, But Heaven's pity take, That bade me forth to bring my dear From grief and lone heartbreak;
“Within the shadow of the tomb In one embrace to rest. My shoulder for his weary head. His babe upon my breast”
Now when the maiden all so pale This piteous tale did hear, She loosed her braids of nut-brown hair, And dropped full oft a tear.
“Now go you back, poor ghost,” said she, “And may your sleep be sound; And grieve you naught for any man Who walks the upper ground.
“And do not wake for any soul Who on this earth doth live; For if your dear doth grieve him sore You could not comfort give.
“For he doth weep the lone night through And all the weary day. Since I unto his suit am cold And to his love say nay!”
# The Collected Poems of Dora Sigerson Shorter/The Deserted Lover

From The Collected Poems of Dora Sigerson Shorter (1907).
THE DESERTED LOVER
I go through wet spring woods alone,
Through sweet green woods with heart of stone,
My weary foot upon the grass
Falls heavy as I pass.
The cuckoo from the distance cries,
The lark a pilgrim in the skies;
But all the pleasant spring is drear.
I want you, dear!
I pass the summer meadows by,
The autumn poppies bloom and die;
I speak alone so bitterly
For no voice answers me.
“O lovers parting by the gate,
O robin singing to your mate,
Plead, plead you well, for she will hear,
‘I love you, dear!’”
I crouch alone, unsatisfied,
Mourning by winter's fireside.
Fate, what evil wind you blow.
Must this be so?
No Southern breezes come to bless,
So conscious of their emptiness
My lonely arms I spread in woe,
I want you so.
# The Collected Poems of Dora Sigerson Shorter/The End of the World

From The Collected Poems of Dora Sigerson Shorter (1907).
THE END OF THE WORLD
Even the silent lips and comforting calm face I had no more; I took my place Still wondering, behind the slow sad coach that bore All of your beauty Death could rob from me, One amongst many men who followed thee.
“Now comes an end of things,” I said, and faced the light And saw the sun; there was not any night Although the sands of your sweet life had run. Even the httle children, in their glee, Raced by the four slow steeds that carried thee.
The curious passer's gaze I watched with jealous eyes Your coffin find, through its disguise Of living flowers; you from their careless pity safe behind Those wooden walls; oh, safe, my dear, no one shall see. Or none remember, save those who follow thee.
Even the little birds and blossoming spring flowers, They did not care, and still the hours Went on to weave slow days to years for me to bear. No song was hushed, no laughter stilled for me. No woman wept when my world died with thee.
# The Collected Poems of Dora Sigerson Shorter/The Fairies

From The Collected Poems of Dora Sigerson Shorter (1907).
THE FAIRIES
The fairies, the fairies, the mischief-loving fairies, Have stolen my loved one, my darling, and my dear; With charms and enchantments they lured and waylaid him, So my love cannot comfort and my presence cannot cheer.
The fairies, the fairies, I'll love no more the fairies: I'll never sweep the hearth for them or care the fairy thorn, I'll skim no more the yellow cream nor leave the perfumed honey; But I'll drive the goats for pasture to their greenest rath each morn.
With Ave, and Ave, and many a Paternoster, Within their magic circle I'll tell my beads for you; My prayers be sharp as arrows to pierce their soulless bosoms Till they come with loud sorrow to tell me that they rue.
My darling, my darling, what glamour is upon you That you find for your gaze satisfaction and content In the charms of that colleen, with her black snaky ringlets, Her red lips contemptuous, and her gloomy brows so bent?
The fairies, the fairies, from her blue eyes were peeping;
They blew her hair about you so you were lost, my dear.
With their charms and enchantments they lured and waylaid you,
So my love cannot comfort and my presence cannot cheer.
# The Army and Navy Hymnal/Hymns/Index of Subjects

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Index of Subjects
# The Army and Navy Hymnal/Hymns/Jerusalem the Golden

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| 180 | Jerusalem the Golden |
| 180 | (EWING 7,6,7,6,D.) |
| Bernard of Cluny, circa 1145 Translated by John M. Neale, 1851 Alexander Ewing, 1853 |||
| A musical score should appear at this position in the text. See Help:Sheet music for formatting instructions |||
* Jerusalem the golden, With milk and honey blest, Beneath thy contemplation Sink heart and voice oppressed; I know not, O I know not, What joys await us there, What radiancy of glory, What bliss beyond compare!
* They stand, those halls of Zion, All jubilant with song, And bright with many an angel, And all the martyr throng; The Prince is ever in them, The daylight is serene; The pastures of the blessed Are decked in glorious sheen.
* There is the throne of David; And there, from care released, The shout of them that triumph, The song of them that feast; And they, who with their Leader, Have conquered in the fight, Forever and forever Are clad in robes of white.
* O sweet and blessed country, The home of God's elect! O sweet and blessed country That eager hearts expect! Jesus, in mercy bring us To that dear land of rest, Who art, with God the Father And Spirit, ever blest! Amen.