OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# The Book of Scottish Song/The Woodlark

The Woodlark
[Written by Burns, for Thomson's collection, and suited either for the tune of "Loch-Eroch side," or "Where'll bonnie Ann lie."]
O stay, sweet warbling woodlark, stay, Nor quit for me the trembling spray, A hapless lover courts thy lay, Thy soothing fond complaining.
Again, again that tender part, That I may catch thy melting art: For surely that wad touch her heart, Wha kills me wi' disdaining.
Say, was thy little mate unkind, And heard thee as the careless wind? Oh, nocht but love and sorrow join'd, Sic notes o' woa could wauken.
Thou tells o' never-ending care; O' speechless grief, and dark despair; For pity's sake, sweet bird, nae mair! Or my poor heart is broken!
# The Book of Scottish Song/The auld Man's Lament

The auld Man’s Lament.
[William Cross. Printed with the author's latest corrections.]
My beltane o' life and my gay days are gane, And now I am feckless, and dowie, and lane, And my lammas o' life, wi' its floods o' saut tears, Has drowned a' the joys o' my young happy years.
Full threescore and ten times the gowan has spread Since first owre the meadow wi' light foot I sped, And threescore and ten times the blue bells ha'e blawn, Since to pu' them I first daunder'd biythe owre the lawn.
The burn banks I lo'ed when a callant to range, And the heather-clad braes, now seem eerie and strange,
The burn seems na clear, and the lift seems na blue; But it's ablins my auld een that dinna tell true.
The mates o' my young days are a' wede awa', The sunshine they shared, but escaped frae the snaw, Like the swallows they fled when youth's warm days were gane, And I'm left like a winged ane in winter alane.
To yon aged hawthorn that bends o'er the burn, Its far scattered blossoms can never return, They are swept to the sea o'er dark plumb and deep linn,
Sae, my comrades ha'e flourish'd and fled ane by ane.
It seems short to look back since my Peggy was young,
Bliss beam'd in her features, joy flow'd frae her tongue,
But my Peggy has left me, and gane like the lave, And the wind whistles shrill o'er my dear Peggy's grave.
My Peggy was ruddy, my Peggy was fair, Mild was her blue e'e, and modest her air;
But I needna tell now what my Peggy has been,
For blanch'd are her red cheeks, and closed her blue een.
The wind whistles shrill, snell and bitter's the blast, And death o'er my head waves his fell rung at last: I have heard for the last time the laverock's sweet sang, He may cour frae the storm by my grave or't be lang.
Soon may the worm on this auld body feed, Soon may the nettles grow rank at my head, And some herd in thae few words may sum up my fame, "There's an auld man lies here, I've forgotten his name."
# The Book of Scottish Song/Come hame to your lingels

Come hame to your lingels.
[The first stanza of this song was a fragment by Tannahill: the rest has been happily added by Alex. Rodger.—Tune, "O, whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad."]
Come hame to your lingels, ye ne'er-do-weel loon, You're the king o' the dyvours, the talk o' the town, Sae soon as the Munonday morning comes in, Your wearifu' daidling again maun begin. Gudewife, you're a skillet, your tongue's just a bell, To the peace o' gude fallows it rings the death-knell, But clack till ye deafen auld Barnaby's mill, The souter shall aye ha'e his Munonday's yill.
Come hame to your lap-stane, come hame to your last,
It's a bonnie affair that your family maun fast, While you and your crew here a-guzzling maun sit, Ye daised drunken gude-for-nocht heir of the pit, Just leuk, how I'm gaun without stocking or shoe, Your baims a' in tatters, an' fotherless too, An' yet, quite content, like a sot, ye'll sit still, Till your kyte's like to crack, wi' your Munonday's yill.
I tell you, gudewife, gin you haud na your clack, I'll lend you a reestle wi' this owre your back; Maun we be abused an' affronted by you, Wi' siccan fool names as "loon," "dyvour," an' "crew?" Come hame to your lingels, this instant come hame, Or I'll redden your face, gin ye've yet ony shame, For I'll bring a' the bairns, an' we'll just ha'e our fill, As weel as yoursel', o' your Munonday's yill.
Gin that be the gate o't, sirs, come, let us stir, What need we sit here to be pestered by her? For she'll plague an' affront us as far as she can; Did ever a woman sae bother a man? Frae yill house to yill house she'll after us rin, An' raise the hale town wi' her yelpin' and din; Come, ca' the gudewife, bid her bring in her bill, I see I maun quat takin' Munonday's yill.
# The Book of Scottish Song/Comin' thro' the rye 2

Comin’ thro’ the rye.
[Modern theatrical version.]
Gin a body meet a body Comin' through the rye, Gin a body kiss a body, Need a body cry? Every lassie has her laddie, Nane, they say, ha'e I! Yet a' the lads they smile at me, When comin' through the rye. Amang the train there is a swain I dearly lo'e mysell; But whaur his hame, or what his name, I dinna care to tell.
Gin a body meet a body, Comin' frae the town, Gin a body greet a body, Need a body frown? Every lassie has her laddie, Nane, they say, ha'e I! Yet a' the lads they smile at me, When comin' through the rye. Amang the train there is a swain, I dearly lo'e mysell; But whaur his hame, or what his name, I dinna care to tell.
# The Book of Scottish Song/Coila's Bard

Coila’s Bard.
[James Stirrat.—Written for Burns' Anniversary, 1829.—Air, "There's nae luck about the house."—Of the numerous songs that have been composed in honour of Burns, this appears to us to be one of the finest.]
There's nae bard to charm us now, Nae bard ava Can sing a sang to nature true, Since Coila's bard's awa'.
The simple harp o' earlier days In silence slumbers now, And modern art, wi' tuneless lays, Presumes the Nine to woo. But nae bard in a' our isle, Nae bard ava, Frae pawky Coila wins a smile Since Robin gaed awa'. ​His hamely style let Fashion spurn; She wants baith taste and skill, And wiser should she ever turn, She'll sing his sangs hersel'. For nae sang sic pathos speaks, Nae sang ava; And Fashion's foreign rants and squeaks Should a' be drumm'd awa'.
Her far-fetch'd figures aye maun fail To touch the feeling heart; Simplicity's direct appeal Excels sic learned art. And nae modern minstrel's lay, Nae lay ava, Sae powerfully the heart can sway, As Robin's that's awa'.
For o'er his numbers Coila's muse A magic influence breath'd, And roun' her darling poet's brows A peerless crown had wreath'd. And nae wreath that e'er was seen, Nae wreath ava, Will bloom sae lang 's the holly green O' Robin that's awa'.
Let Erin's minstrel, Tommy Moore, His lyrics sweetly sing, 'Twad lend his harp a higher power Would Coila add a string. For nae harp has yet been kent, Nae harp ava, To match the harp by Coila lent To Robin that's awa'.
And though our shepherd, Jamie Hogg, His pipe fu' sweetly plays, It ne'er will charm auld Scotland's lug Like Ploughman Robin's lays. For nae pipe will Jamie tune, Nae pipe ava, Like that which breath'd by "bonnie Doon" Ere Robin gaed awa'.
Even Scotland's pride, Sir Walter Scott, Wha boldly strikes the lyre, Maun yield to Robin's sweet love-note, His native wit and fire. For nae bard hath ever sung, Nae bard ava, In hamely or in foreign tongue, Like Robin that's awa'.
Frae feeling heart Tom Campbell's lays In classic beauty flow, But Robin's artless sang displays The saul'a impassion'd glow. For nae bard by classic lore, Nae bard ava, Has thrill'd the bosom's inmost core Like Robin that's awa'.
A powerfu' harp did Byron sweep, But not wi' happy glee; And though his tones were strong and deep, He ne'er could change the key. For nae bard beneath the lift, Nae bard ava, Wi' master skill the keys could shift Like Robin that's awa'.
He needs nae monumental stanes To keep alive his fame, Auld Granny Scotland and her weans Will ever sing his name. For nae name does fame record, Nae name ava, By Caledonia mair ador'd Than Robin's that's awa'.
# The Book of Scottish Song/Colin Clout

Colin Clout.
[This is only a fragment of an old song: the rest is supposed to be lost. Richard Galt communicated it to Johnson's Museum, where it was set to music by Stephen Clarke.]
Chanticleer, wi' noisy whistle, Bids the housewife rise in haste: Colin Clout begins to hirsle, Slawly frae his sleepless nest, ​Love that raises sic a clamour, Drivin' lads and lasses mad; Waes my heart! had coost his glamour, O'er poor Colin, luckless lad.
Cruel Jenny, lack a daisy! Lang had gart him greet and grane, Colin's pate was hafflins crazy, Jenny laugh'd at Colin's pain. Slawly, up his duds he gathers, Slawly, slawly trudges out, An' frae the fauld he drives his wedders, Happier far than Colin Clout.
Now the sun, rais'd frae his nappie, Set the orient in a lowe, Drinkin' ilka glancin' drappie, I' the field, an' i' the knowe. Mony a birdie, sweetly singin', Flaffer'd briskly round about; An' monie a daintie flowerie springin', A' were blythe but Colin Clout.
What is this? cries Colin glow'rin', Glaiked like, a' round about, Jenny! this is past endurin': Death maun ease poor Colin Clout. A' the night I toss and tumble, Never can I close an e'e, A' the day I grane an' grumble, Jenny, this is a' for thee.
Ye'll ha'e nane but farmer Patie, 'Cause the fallow 's rich, I trow, Aiblins though he shouldna cheat ye, Jenny, ye'll ha'e cause to rue. Auld, and gley'd, and crooked backed,— Siller bought at sic a price,— Ah, Jenny! gin ye lout to tak' it, Folk will say ye're no o'er nice.
# The Book of Scottish Song/Come under my Plaidie

Come under my Plaidie.
[Written by Hector Macneil to the same tune as that of the above, namely, Johnnie M'Gill, and published in the sixth volume of Johnson's Museum.]
Come under my plaidie; the night's gaun to fa'; Come in frae the cauld blast, the drift, and the snaw: Come under my plaidie, and sit down beside me; There's room in't, dear lassie, believe me, for twa. Come under my plaidie, and sit down beside me; I'll hap ye frae every cauld blast that can blaw: Come under my plaidie, and sit down beside me; There's room in't, dear lassie, believe me, for twa.
Gae 'wa wi' your plaidie! auld Donald, gae 'wa; I fear na the cauld blast, the drift, nor the snaw! Gae 'wa wi' your plaidie! I'll no sit beside ye; Ye micht be my gutcher! auld Donald, gae 'wa. I'm gaun to meet Johnnie—he's young and he's bonnie; He's been at Meg's bridal, fu' trig and fu' braw! Nane dances sae lichtly, sae gracefu', or tichtly, His cheek's like the new rose, his brow's like the snaw!
Dear Marion, let that flee stick fast to the wa'; Your Jock's but a gowk, and has naething ava; The haill o' his pack he has now on his back; He's thretty, and I am but three score and twa. Be frank now and kindly—I'll busk ye aye finely; To kirk or to market there'll few gang sae braw; A bein house to bide in, a chaise for to ride in, And flunkies to 'tend ye as aft as ye ca'.
My father aye tauld me, my mother and a', Ye'd mak' a gude husband, and keep me aye braw; It's true, I lo'e Johnnie; he's young and he's bonnie; But, wae's me! I ken he has naething ava! I ha'e little tocher; ye've made a gude offer; I'm now mair than twenty; my time is but sma'! Sae gi'e me your plaidie; I'll creep in beside ye; I thocht ye'd been aulder than three score and twa!
She crap in ayont him, beside the stane wa', Whare Johnnie was listnin', and heard her tell a': The day was appointed!—his proud heart it dunted, And strack 'gainst his side, as if burstin' in twa. He wander'd hame wearie, the nicht it was drearie, And, thowless, he tint his gate 'mang the deep snaw: The howlet was screaming, while Johnnie cried, Women Wad marry auld Nick, if he'd keep them aye braw.
O, the deil's in the lasses! they gang now sae braw, They'll lie down wi' auld men o' four score and twa; The haill o' their marriage is gowd and a carriage; Plain love is the cauldest blast now that can blaw. Auld dotards, be wary! tak' tent wha you marry; Young wives, wi' their coaches, they'll whip and they'll ca', Till they meet wi' some Johnnie that's youthfu' and bonnie, And they'll gi'e ye horns on ilk haffet to claw.
# The Book of Scottish Song/Comin' thro' the rye 1

Comin’ thro’ the rye.
[The original old words of "Comin' thro' the rye," or "Gin a body meet a body," cannot be satisfactorily traced. There are many different versions of the song. Some sets embrace such verses as the following:
Gin a body meet a body Comin' frae the well, Gin a body kiss a body— Need a body tell? Ilka Jenny has her Jocky, Ne'er a ane ha'e I; But a' the lads they look at me— And what the waur am I?
Gin a body meet a body, Comin' frae the town, (or thro' the broom,) Gin a body kiss a body— Need a body gloom? &c.
The following is the version which is given in Johnson's Museum, and which passed through the hands of Burns. The air forms, with slight variation, the third and fourth strains of strathspey called "The Miller's Daughter," in Gow's first Collection.]
Coming through the rye, poor body, Coming through the rye, She draiglet a' her petticoatie, Coming through the rye. Oh Jenny's a' wat, poor body, Jenny's seldom dry; She draiglet a' her petticoatie, Coming through the rye.
Gin a body meet a body— Coming through the rye, Gin a body kiss a body— Need a body cry?
Gin a body meet a body Coming through the glen, Gin a body kiss a body— Need the warld ken? ​Oh Jenny's a' wat, poor body; Jenny's seldom dry; She draiglet a' her petticoatie, Coming through the rye.
# The Book of Scottish Song/Cold, cold's the hand

Cold, cold’s the hand.
[W. B. Sangster.—Here first printed.—The Lady on whom these verses are written died at Madeira, 8th November, 1842.]
Cold, cold's the hand that oft in mine Hath thrill'd with hope and feeling, And deadly still the gentle heart On which the worm is stealing.
The glossy locks are now laid low,— The cheeks, once warmly bloomin', Are pale an' cold as winter's snow Upon a winter's gloamin'.
The silvery notes that in mine ears Have dropp'd like oil and manna, Ah! they are mute as shedden tears— The sacred voice of Anna.
My much lov'd maid is now no more; We cannot meet by Banna; Her place is void, and, oh! I'd soar, To meet in heaven my Anna.
# The Book of Scottish Song/Colonel Gardiner

Colonel Gardiner.
[This is another production of Sir Gilbert Elliot's, written in memory of Colonel James Gardiner, who fell at the battle of Prestonpans, in September, 1745. It may claim singularity as one of the few songs of the period not on the Jacobite side. The "Fanny fair," mentioned in the first stanza, was a daughter of the Colonel's, afterwards Mrs. Richmond Inglis, who died at Edinburgh in 1795. She was authoress of a poem called "Anna and Edgar, or Love and Ambition," published at Edinburgh in 1781, 4to. The poem of Colonel Gardiner is said to have been originally set to the tune of Barbara Allan, but it appears in Johnson's Museum to an old tune called Sawnie's Pipe.]
'Twas at the hour of dark midnight, Before the first cock's crowing, When westland winds shook Stirling's towers With hollow murmurs blowing; When Fanny fair, all woe begone. Sad on her bed was lying. And from the roin'd towers she heard The boding screech-owl crying.
"O dismal night!" she said, and wept, "O night presaging sorrow, O dismal night!" she said, and wept, "But more I dread to-morrow. For now the bloody hour draws nigh, Each host to Preston bending; At morn shall sons their fathers slay, With deadly hate contending.
"Even in the visions of the night, I saw fell death wide sweeping; And all the matrons of the land, And all the virgins, weeping." And now she heard the massy gates Harsh on their hinges turning; And now through all the castle heard The woeful voice of mourning.
Aghast, she started from her bed, The fatal tidings dreading; "O speak," she cried, "my father's slain! I see, I see him bleeding!"— "A pale corpse on the sullen shore, At morn, fair maid, I left him; Even at the threshhold of his gate. The foe of life bereft him.
"Bold, in the battle's front, he fell, With many a wound deformed; A braver knight, nor better man, This fair isle ne'er adorned." — While thus he spake, the grief-struck maid A deadly swoon invaded; Lost was the lustre of her eyes, And all her beauty faded.
Sad was the sight, and sad the news, And sad was our complaining; But, oh! for thee, my native kind, What woes are still remaining! But why complain? the hero's soul Is high in heaven shining; May providence defend our isle From all our foes designing!
# The Anatomy of Love/Chapter 17

p. 670.

### CHAPTER XVII.

The evening train that connected the Arcadian village of Cedar Hills with a hurrying and fretting outside” world was an “accommodation,” apparently touched with the tranquillity of the quiet valleys through which it crept.
Yet Anne and Macraven, alone on the back platform of the last coach, seemed to find their rate of travel quite fast enough.
They did not talk much, that solitary couple, but their very silences seemed companionable and eloquent of things unuttered, as they sat there hand in hand, swaying to the movement of the car along the rough roadbed.
Macraven looked upward at the stars.
“That is Venus, see, marching up out of the east,” he said. “And those are the Pleiades, there, just above us. And there, to the north, is the Great Bear, wheeling about the Polar Star——”
“As life wheels about love,” interrupted Anne softly.
“No, as I must always wheel about you,” solemnly corrected Macraven. “For that is the North Star, and it never moves. It is as true and steadfast as—as Anne herself. And that is the way my life shall always turn and revolve about her, from this day on!”
“Do you know that you're a rhapsodist, after all?” murmured Anne happily.
“Sybil said I was a bug hunter,” he demurred. “Poor Sybil!”
“Yes, poor Sybil!” Anne murmured. “After all, she was sorry to see us as go!”
“And you were never really jealous of her?” asked the man of truth, a little uneasily.
Anne looked up from his shoulder.
“Of course not,” she answered. “No more than I could be of a bunch of lilacs that took your mind off your work, or a bird that made your holiday seem brighter. No, I'm glad of Sybil! I feel grateful to think that you knew her—for it was Sybil who helped to bring us to—to each other!”
“Who helped me,” he corrected.
There was silence for a moment or two, and then he said:
“I must see what I can do for young Sewell when I get back, for her sake.”
The pressure of Anne's hand on his arm was her grateful response to this.
“Do you know,” he said to Anne, “I always used to think that we had to look down on life from one of two towers, I mean from one of two opposing and incongruous heights. One was built of granite, huge and grim and hard—I suppose you would call it the tower of labor.”
“It stood just beyond the deanery gardens, didn't it?” interrupted Anne.
“But the other tower was different,” went on Macraven. “It was made of ivory, tall and fragile and slender. And it always seemed to me a tower of dreams, the home of beauty and aspiration. But now I know there can and should be only one tower in every man's life. It must be of granite beneath—it must be bedded on actualities—but it should be tipped with the fairest of ivory—crowned and beautified, I mean, with young-heartedness and happiness.”
“What made you think of that?” she asked.
“It was you who taught it to me,” was his answer.
“Silly!” she murmured happily, against his supporting shoulder.
# The Bat

While attributed to Rinehart and Hopwood, this novel, based on their play of the same name, was apparently ghostwritten by Stephen Vincent Benét. The Bat was adapted into 3 films: in 1926 as The Bat, 1930 as The Bat Whispers, and 1959 as The Bat.
A Novel
From the Play by
MARY ROBERTS RINEHART
And AVERY HOPWOOD
NEW YORK
GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
Copyright 1926,
By George H. Doran Company
"THE BAT COPYRIGHT, 1926, BY
MARY ROBERTS RINEHART AND AVERY HOPWOOD
THE BAT
—A—
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
CONTENTS
| chapter | |
| One | The Shadow of the Bat | 9 |
| Two | The Indomitable Miss Van Gorder | 24 |
| Three | Pistol Practice | 43 |
| Four | The Storm Gathers | 60 |
| Five | Alopecia and Rubeola | 76 |
| Six | Detective Anderson Takes Charge | 96 |
| Seven | Cross-Questions and Crooked Answers | 114 |
| Eight | The Gleaming Eye | 128 |
| Nine | A Shot in the Dark | 145 |
| Ten | The Phone Call from Nowhere | 160 |
| Eleven | Billy Practices Jiu-Jitsu | 176 |
| Twelve | "I Didn't Kill Him" | 192 |
| Thirteen | The Blackened Bag | 208 |
| Fourteen | Handcuffs | 225 |
| Fifteen | The Sign of the Bat | 240 |
| Sixteen | The Hidden Room | 259 |
| Seventeen | Anderson Makes an Arrest | 269 |
| Eighteen | The Bat Still Flies | 281 |
| Nineteen | Murder on Murder | 294 |
| Twenty | "He Is—The Bat!" | 309 |
| Twenty-One | Quite a Collection | 316 |
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1958, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 65 years or less. 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 Basket Maker's Child

Originally published 1861 by Russell & Patee.
1. Where the green willows wav'd by the brook, And the sweet waters danced and smiled, In a cottage nestled in a quiet nook, Dwelt the basket maker's child.
'Twas the sabbath eve, The stars twinkled bright in the sky, The hills reechoed the night bird's song, When they told me she must die.
CHORUS [sung after each verse] The green willows waved by the brook, The stars glitter'd bright in the sky, The wind's low moan the leaves shook, On that stilly night by that murm'ring brook, When they told me she might die.
2. Oh weep not for me she said, Tho' the death damp has dimmm'd my eye, My Saviour's hand is beneath my head, I do not fear to die.
I go to my happy home. My earth work is almost done, And I hear my blessed Saviour's words, "Let little children come!"
3. Let me rest beside the brook, Where the sweet waters flow so mild. And I carve on the tree where I used to play, "I'm the basket maker's child."
Where the green willows wave by the brook, And the sweet waters danced and smiled. We have laid her to rest and carved on the oak, "The basket maker's child."
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 Basque Girl and Henri Quatre

* From The Literary Gazette, October 1822
* From The Improvisatrice; and Other Poems (1824)
# The Bat, the Bramble, and the Seagull

Perry index 171
* "A Bat, Bramble and Cormorant", translated by Roger L'Estrange, in Fables of Æsop and Other Eminent Mythologists (1692)
* "The Bat, the Bramble, and the Seagull", translated by Vernon Stanley Jones, in Æsop's fables: A New Translation (1912)
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