OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# The Book of the Thousand Nights and One Night/The Stolen Purse

Second-level story, contained in The Malice of Women
THE STOLEN PURSE.
Four merchants once owned a thousand dinars in common; so they laid them in one purse and set out to buy goods therewith. On their way, they happened on a beautiful garden; so they left the purse with a woman ​who kept the garden and entered. After they had walked about awhile and eaten and drunken and made merry, one of them said to the others, “I have with me scented fuller’s earth; come, let us wash our heads therewith in this running water.” Quoth another, “We lack a comb;” and a third, “Let us ask the keeper; belike she hath a comb.” Thereupon one of them arose and accosting the keeper, whereas his comrades could see him, but not hear what he said, said to her, “Give me the purse.” Quoth she, “I will not give it up, except ye be all present or thy fellows bid me give it thee.” Then he called to his companions, saying, “She will not give it me.” And they said to her, “Give it him,” thinking he meant the comb. So she gave him the purse and he took it and made off.
When the three others were weary of waiting, they went to the keeper and said to her, “Why wilt thou not give him the comb?” “He asked me for nought but the purse,” answered she, “and I gave it not but with your consent, and he went his way with it.” When they heard this, they buffeted their faces and said to her, “We authorized thee only to give him the comb.” And she, “He named not a comb to me.” Then they laid hands on her and haled her before the Cadi, to whom they made their complaint, and he condemned her to make good the purse and bound a number of her debtors surety for her. Night dcvi.So she went forth, confounded and knowing not what she should do.
Presently, she met a five-year-old boy, who, seeing her troubled, said to her, “What ails thee, O my mother?” But she gave him no answer, making no account of him, because of his tender age, and he repeated his question a second and a third time, till, at last, she told him all that had passed. “Give me a dirhem, to buy sweetmeats withal,” said the boy; “and I will tell thee how thou mayst acquit thyself.” So she gave him a dirhem and ​said to him, “What hast thou to say?” “Return to the Cadi,” quoth he, “and say to him, ‘It was agreed between myself and them that I should not give them back the purse, except all four of them were present. Let them all four come and I will give them the purse, as was agreed.’” So she went back to the Cadi and said to him as the boy had counselled; and he said to the merchants, “Was it thus agreed between you?” “Yes,” answered they. “Then bring me your fellow,” said the Cadi, “and take the purse.” So they went in quest of their fellow, whilst the keeper came off scot free and went her way without hindrance.’
Return to The Malice of Women.
This work is a translation and has a separate copyright status to the applicable copyright protections of the original content.
# The Book of the Thousand Nights and One Night/The Sons of Yehya Ben Khalid and Saïd Ben Salim el Bahili

First-level story, told by Shehrzad (in theory)
THE SONS OF YEHYA BEN KHALID AND SAÏD BEN SALIM EL BAHILI.
(Quoth Saïd ben Salim el Bahili), I was once, in the days of Haroun er Reshid, in very narrow case and greatly oppressed with debts, that had accumulated upon me and that I had no means of discharging. My doors were blocked up with creditors and I was without cease importuned for payment by claimants, who dunned me in crowds, till I was at my wits’ end what to do. At last, being sore perplexed and troubled, I betook myself to Abdallah ben Malik el Khuzaï and besought him to aid me with his judgment and of his good counsel direct me to the door of relief; and he said, “None can quit thee of this thy strait but the Barmecides.” Quoth I, “Who can brook their pride and put up with their arrogance?” And he answered, “Thou must put up with it, for the sake of amending thy case.” Night cccxciii.So I left him and went straight to ​El Fezl and Jaafer, sons of Yehya ben Khalid, to whom I related my case. “God give thee His aid,” answered they, “and enable thee by His bounties to dispense with the aid of His creatures and vouchsafe thee abundant good and bestow on thee what shall suffice thee, without the need of any but Himself; for He can what He will and is gracious and provident with His servants.”
I went out from them and returned to Abdallah, disappointed and perplexed and heavy at heart, and told him what they had said. Quoth he, “Thou wouldst do well to abide with us this day, that we may see what God the Most High will decree.” So I sat with him awhile, and lo, up came my servant, who said to me, “O my lord, there are at our door many laden mules, and with them a man, who says he is the agent of Fezl and Jaafer ben Yehya.” Quoth Abdallah, “I trust that relief is come to thee: go and see what is to do.” So I left him and running to my house, found at the door a man, who gave me a letter, wherein was written the following: “Know that, after thou hadst been with us and acquainted us with thy case, we betook ourselves to the Khalif and informed him that the case had reduced thee to the humiliation of begging; whereupon he ordered thee a million dirhems from the Treasury. We represented to him that thou wouldst spend this money in paying thy creditors and said, ‘Whence shall he provide for his subsistence?’ So he ordered thee other three hundred thousand, and we have sent thee, of our own money, a million dirhems each, so that thou hast now three millions and three hundred thousand dirhems, wherewithal to order thine affair and amend thine estate.”
See, then, the munificence of these generous men; may God the Most High have mercy on them!
* ↑ A well-known grammarian and traditionist of the time, afterwards governor of part of Khorassan, under the Khalif El Mamoun.
* ↑ Intendant of the palace under Er Reshid.
This work is a translation and has a separate copyright status to the applicable copyright protections of the original content.
# The Book of Scottish Song/Loch Cathrine

Loch Cathrine.
Amid Loch Cat'rine's scenery wild, Is seen my lassie's dwelling, Where cavern'd rocks on mountains pil'd Howl to the sea-breeze swelling:— She's purer than the snaw that fa's On mountain's summit airy; The sweetest mountain flow'r that blaws Is not so fair as Mary.
'Tis sweet when woodland echo rings, Where purling streams meander, But sweeter when my Mary sings, As through the glens we wander. The wild deer on the mountain side, The fabled elf or fairy, Or skiff, that skims the crystal tide, Moves not more light than Mary.
From Lowland plains I've wandered far, In endless search of pleasure; Till guided by some friendly star, I found this lovely treasure. Although my native home has charms, Amang these hills I'll tarry; And while life's blood my bosom warms, I'll love my dearest ilary.
# The Book of Scottish Song/Lizy Liberty

Lizy Liberty.
[Rev. John Skinner.—Tune, "Tibbie Fowler in the glen."—Written during the political commotions which agitated Europe shortly after the great French revolution of 1789.]
There lives a lassie on the brae, O! but she's a bonnie creature; They ca' her Lizy Liberty, And monie ane's wooing at her. Wooing at her, fain wad ha'e her, Courting at, but canna get her; Bonnie Lizy Liberty, There's o'er monie wooing at her. ​Her mither wears a plettit mutch; Her father is an honest dyker, An' she hersel's a daintie quean, Ye winna shaw me monie like her. Wooing at her, &c.
A pleasant lass she's kent to be, Wi' fouth o' sense an' smeddum in her; There's no a swankie far or near, But tries wi' a' his might to win her. Wooing at her, &c.
But sweet and pleasant as she is, She winna thole the marriage tether, But likes to rove and rant about, Like highland couts amang the heather. Wooing at her, &c.
It's seven years, and somewhat mair, Sin' Matthew Dutch made courtship till her, A merchant bluff, ayont the burn, Wi' heaps o' breeks an' bags o' siller. Wooing at her, &c.
The next to him was Baltic John, Stept up the brae and keeket at her, Syne turn'd as great a fool's he came, And in a day or twa forgat her. Wooing at her, &c.
Now Lawrie French has ta'en the whim To toss his airs, and frisk about her, And Malcolm Fleming puffs and swears He disna value life without her. Wooing at her, &c.
They've casten out wi' a' their kin, Thinking that wad gar them get her; Yet after a' the fash they've ta'en, They maybe winna be the better. Wooing at her, &c.
But Donald Scot's the happy lad, Wha seems to be the coshest wi' her, He never fails to get a kiss, As aften as he likes to see her. Wooing at her, &c.
But Donald, tak' a friend's advice, Although I ken ye fain wad ha'e her, E'en just be doing as ye are, And haud wi' what ye're getting frae her. Wooing at her, &c.
Ye're weel, and wats nae, as we say, In getting leave to dwell beside her; And gin ye had her mair your ain, Ye'd maybe find it waur to guide her. Wooing at her, &c.
Ah! Lawrie, ye've debauch'd the lass, Wi' vile new-fangled tricks ye've play'd her; Depraved her morals;—like an ass, Ye've courted her, and syne betray'd her. Wi' hanging of her, burning of her Cutting, hacking, slashing at her; Bonnie Lizy Liberty, May ban the day ye ettled at her.
# The Book of Scottish Song/Logan Braes

Logan Braes.
[This beautiful song is the production of John Mayne, author of the "Siller Gun," "Glasgow, a poem," &c. Mayne was a native of Dumfries, but spent the early part of his life in Glasgow, where he served an apprenticeship as a compositor under the celebrated printers, Foulis. He afterwards removed to London, and was long connected there with the Star daily newspaper. He died on the 14th March, 1836. "Logan Braes" was first printed in the Star Newspaper on the 23d May, 1789, and we believe consisted originally of only the first two stanzas, to which, indeed, the song, in singing, is generally limited. The four additional stanzas first appeared in the Pocket Encyclopedia of Songs, published at Glasgow in 1816, and are probably not by Mayne. The tune of "Logan Water," to which this and the two following songs are adapted, is of considerable antiquity, and, (before the production of Mayne) used to be sung to words of by no means a scrupulous character, beginning,
Ae simmer night, on Logan braes, I help'd a lassie on wi' her claes, First wi' her stockings, and syne wi' her shoon, &c.]
"By Logan's streams that rin sae deep, Fu' aft wi' glee I've herded sheep; Herded sheep, or gather'd slaes, Wi' my dear lad, on Logan braes. But wae's my heart! thae days are gane, And I, wi' grief, may herd alane; While my dear lad maun face his faes, Far, far frae me, an' Logan braes.
"Nae mair at Logan kirk will he Atween the preachings meet wi' me; Meet wi' me, or when it's mirk, Convoy me hame frae Logan kirk. I weel may sing thae days are gane— Frae kirk an' fair I come alane, While my dear lad maun face his faes, Far, far frae me, an' Logan braes!
"At e'en, when hope amaist is gane, I dauner out, or sit alane, Sit alane beneath the tree Where aft he kept his tryst wi' me. O! cou'd I see thae days again, My lover skaithless, an' my ain! Belov'd by frien's, rever'd by faes, We'd live in bliss on Logan braes."
While for her love she thus did sigh, She saw a sodger passing by, Passing by wi' scarlet claes, While sair she grat on Logan braes: Says he, "What gars thee greet sae sair, What fills thy heart sae fu' o' care? Thae sporting lambs has blythsome days An' playfu' skip on Logan braes?"
"What can I do but weep and mourn? I fear my lad will ne'er return, Ne'er return to ease my waes, Will ne'er come hame to Logan braes." Wi' that he clasp'd her in his arms, And said, "I'm free from war's alarms, I now ha'e conquer'd a' my faes, We'll happy live on Logan braes."
Then straight to Logan kirk they went, And join'd their hands wi' one consent, Wi' one consent to end their days, An' live in bliss on Logain braes. An' now she sings, "thae days are gane, When I wi' grief did herd alane, While my dear lad did fight his faes, Far, far frae me an' Logan braes."
# The Book of Scottish Song/Logie o' Buchan

Logie o’ Buchan.
[This fine natural song, which is united to an air equally beautiful and simple, has been ascribed to Lady Anne Barnard, the authoress of "Auld Robin Gray," but it is of older date than her life. Mr. Peter Buchan, formerly of Peterhead, now of Glasgow, says that it was written by a school-master at Rathen, in Aberdeenshire, of the name of George Halket, who died in 1756. Halket was a great Jacobite, and wrote various pieces in support of his party: one of the best known of these is the song called "Whirry, Whigs, awa', man." The Logie mentioned in the song is situated in Crimond, a parish adjoining the one where Halket resided, and the hero of the piece, was a James Robertson, gardener at the place of Logie. The original Ballad, according to Mr. Buchan, commences thus:
O woe to Kinmundy, Kinmundy the laird, Wha's tane awa Jamie, that delved i' the yard, Wha play'd on the pipe, an' the viol sae sma', Kinmundy's ta'en Jamie, the flower o' them a.']
O Logie o' Buchan, O Logie the laird, They ha'e ta'en awa' Jamie, that delved in the yard, Wha play'd on the pipe, and the viol sae sma'; They ha'e ta'en awa' Jamie, the flower o' them a'. He said, Think na lang lassie, tho' I gang awa'; He said, Think na lang lassie, tho' I gang awa'; For simmer is coming, cauld winter's awa', And I'll come and see thee in spite o' them a'.
Tho' Sandy has ousan, has gear, and has kye; A house and a hadden, and siller forbye: Yet I'd tak' mine ain lad, wi' his staff in his hand, Before I'd ha'e him, wi' the houses and land. He said, Think nae lang, &c.
My daddie looks sulky, my minnie looks sour, They frown upon Jamie because he is poor: Tho' I lo'e them as weel as a daughter should do, They're nae hauf sae dear to me, Jamie, as you. He said, Think nae lang, &c.
I sit on my creepie, I spin at my wheel, And think on the laddie that lo'ed me sae weel; He had but ae saxpence, he brak it in twa, And gi'ed me the hauf o't when he gade awa'. Then haste ye back, Jamie, and bide na awa', Then haste ye back, Jamie, and bide na awa', The simmer is coming, cauld winter's awa', And ye'll come and see me in spite o' them a'.
# The Book of Scottish Song/Lord Gregory

Lord Gregory.
[Written by Burns for Thomson's collection. Peter Pindar (Dr. Wolcot) had previously written verses on the same subject for the same collection. Both songs are founded on the fine old ballad called "The Lass of Lochryan."]
Oh, mirk, mirk is this midnight hour, And loud the tempests roar; A waefu' wanderer seeks thy tower, Lord Gregory, ope thy door.
An exile frae her father's ha', And a' for loving thee; At least some pity on me shaw, If love it may na be.
Lord Gregory, mind'st thou not the grove By bonnie Irvine side, Where first I own'd that virgin love I lang lang had denied?
How aften didst thou pledge the vow, Thou wad for aye be mine! And my fond heart, itsel' sae true, It ne'er mistrusted thine.
Hard is thy heart. Lord Gregory, And flinty is thy breast! Thou dart of heaven that flashes by, Oh, wilt thou give me rest!
Ye mustering thunders from above, Your willing victim see; But spare and pardon my false love His wrongs to heaven and me!
# The Book of Scottish Song/Loch-na-gar

Loch-na-gar.
[One of the early productions of Lord Byron. It has been set to music by Mrs. Gibson.]
Away, ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of roses, In you let the minions of luxury rove; Restore me the rocks where the snow-flake reposes, If still they are sacred to freedom and love. Yet, Caledonia, beloved are thy mountains, Round their white summits tho' ekments war, Tho' cataracts foam 'stead of smooth flowing fountains, I sigh for the valley of dark Loch-na-gar.
Ah! there my young footsteps in infancy wandered; My cap was the bonnet, my cloak was the plaid: On chieftains, long perish'd, my memory pondered, As daily I strayed through the pine-covered glade. I sought not my home till the day's dying glory Gave place to the rays of the bright polar-star; For fancy was cheered by traditional story, Disclosed by the natives of dark Loch-na-gar.
Shades of the dead! have I not heard your voices, Rise on the night-rolling breath of the gale? Surely the soul of the hero rejoices, And rides on the wind o'er his own Highland vale. Round Loch-na-garr, while the stormy mist gathers, Winter presides in his cold icy car; Clouds there encircle the forms of my fathers, They dwell 'mid the tempests of dark Loch-na-gar.
# The Book of Scottish Song/Lochaber

Lochaber.
[Written by Allan Ramsay to the tune of "Lochaber no more." It appears in the 2d vol. of the Tea Table Miscellany, and also with the music in the Orpheus Caledonius, 1725. The air at an earlier period is said to have been called "King James's march to Ireland."]
Farewell to Lochaber, farewell to my Jean, Where heartsome wi' her I ha'e mony a day been; To Lochaber no more, to Lochaber no more, We'll maybe return to Lochaber no more. These tears that I shed, they're a' for my dear, And no for the dangers attending on weir; Though borne on rough seas to a far bloody shore, Maybe to return to Lochaber no more!
Though hurricanes rise, though rise every wind, No tempest can equal the storm in my mind; Though loudest of thunders on louder waves roar, There's naething like leavin' my love on the shore. To leave thee behind me my heart is sair pain'd; But by ease that's inglorious no fame can be gain'd: And beauty and love's the reward of the brave; And I maun deserve it before I can crave.
Then glory, my Jeanie, maun plead my excuse; Since honour commands me, how can I refuse? Without it, I ne'er can have merit for thee; And losing thy favour I'd better not be. I gae then, my lass, to win honour and fame; And if I should chance to come glorious hame, I'll bring a heart to thee with love running o'er, And then I'll leave thee and Lochaber no more.
# The Book of Scottish Song/Logan Water

Logan Water.
[The following are Burns's words to the tune of Logan Water. They were written four years after the appearance of Mayne's song, and sent to Thomson's collection. Burns was ignorant of Mayne's production at the time, but had heard the burthen of it,—
While my dear lad maun face his faes, Far, far frae me and Logan braes,—
and adopted the lines as a fragment of an old song.]
O Logan, sweetly didst thou glide,
That day I was my Willie's bride;
And years sinsyne ha'e ower us run, Like Logan to the summer sun: But now thy flowery banks appear Like drumlie winter, dark and drear, While my dear lad maun face his faes, Far, far frae me and Logan braes.
Again the merry month of May Has made our hills and valleys gay; The birds rejoice in leafy bowers, The bees hum round the breathing flowers: Blythe morning lifts his rosy eye, And evening tears are tears of joy: My soul, delightless, a' surveys, While Willie's far frae Logan braes.
Within yon milk-white hawthorn bush, Amang her nestlings sits the thrush; Her faithfu' mate will share her toil, Or wi' his sang her cares beguile: But I, wi' my sweet nurslings here, Nae mate to help, nae mate to cheer, Pass widow'd nights and joyless days, While Willie's far frae Logan braes.
O, wae upon you, men o' state, That brethren rouse to deadly hate! As ye make many a fond heart mourn, Sae may it on your heads return! How can your flinty hearts enjoy The widows tears, the orphan's cry? But soon may peace bring happy days, And Willie hame to Logan braes!
# The Book of Scottish Song/Lizzy Lindsay

Lizzy Lindsay.
[There is an old ballad called "Lizzy Lindsay," of which some fragments remain. The first verse of the following words was written by Burns for Johnson's Museum, to an old air, "Will ye gang wi' me, Lizzy Lindsay," which he communicated. The present version is sung to the tune of "The Ewe-Bughts."]
Will ye gang wi' me, Lizzy Lindsay, Will ye gang to the Highlands wi' me? Will ye gang wi' me, Lizzy Lindsay, My bride and my darling to be?
To gang to the Highlands wi' you, sir, I dinna ken how that may be, For I ken nae the land that ye live in, Nor ken I the lad I'm gaun wi'.
O Lizzy, lass, ye maun ken little, If sae ye dinna ken me; For my name is Lord Ronald MacDonald, A chieftain o' high degree.
She has kilted her coats o' green satin, She has kilted them up to the knee, And she's aff wi' Lord Ronald MacDonald, His bride and his darling to be.
# The Book of Scottish Song/Now lanely I sit

Now lanely I sit.
[Alex. Fullarton.—Tune, "Bonnie Dundee."]
Now lanely I sit 'neath the green spreading willow, The loss o' my Johnnie in tears to deplore: Loud blows the wind o'er the white foaming billow; But the wild howling storm can awake him no more! Bravely he fought on the hills of Vimiera, Was doom'd at Corunna, with Moore, to lie low; But bravely he fell, his brave comrades declare a', While fearless he press'd on the ranks of the foe.
Oh! blirty and blae was the day when we parted! And sair blew the blast on the bare naked tree: But mild was the storm when compared wi' the tempest That raved in my heart, and that blindit my e'e. Fondly, but vainly, he strove for to cheer me, And spak' o' braw days when again he'd be free: But ah! never mair shall the sight o' my Johnnie Bring joy to my heart, or yet gladden my e'e.
O sweet war the hours that I spent wi' my laddie, And saft were the tales that he tauld in mine ear; Light beat my heart as sae blythesome and cheerie We met 'mang the breckans, when e'enin' was near: Wild throbb'd my bosom as fondly he prest me, And urged my consent, and derided delay; But now ilka scene whar he kindly caress'd me Gi'es pain, since my Johnnie lies cauld in the clay. ​Pale glides his ghost on the hills of Corunna: Fancy, O waft the dear shade to my view! Fearless, alone I'd converse wi' my Johnnie, Nor tremble to meet him beside the lone yew. Down by yon hawthorn, so lately in blossom, That drooping and wither'd now seems in decay, There aft was I prest to that dear manly bosom, That, sairly lamented, lies cauld in the clay.
# The Book of Scottish Song/Neidpath

Neidpath.
[James Murray.—Here first printed.—Tune, "Katy Tyrell."]
On the green banks of Neidpath, whilst pensively roaming, To mark the dull shadows that creep o'er the plain, I count the lang hours, and I sigh for the gloaming, For then I shall meet with my Anna again. I'll watch when the swain to his cottage is wending, I'll watch when the bird gangs to sleep on the tree, I'll watch when the shadows of eve are descending, And then, dearest Anna, I'll hasten to thee.
'Twas lang ere I tauld, though I loved her so dearly, 'Twas lang ere I ventured my lassie to woo, 'Twas lang ere my heart felt she loved so sincerely, But sighs reveal secrets of love that is true. And dark cares may gather—but care shanna fear me; The storms of misfortune undaunted I'll see; I'll smile when they frown, for if Anna be near me, They'll cease 'neath the light of her love-beaming e'e.
# The Book of Scottish Song/Native Land

Native Land.
[Written by D. Perry. Music by Sir Henry R. Bishop.]
Native land! I'll love thee ever— Let me raise the welcome strain— Mine were banished feet that never Hoped to press thy turf again. Now these eyes, illumed with gladness, As they scanned thy beauties o'er, Ne'er again shall melt in sadness, Parting to return no more. Caledonia! native land! Native land! I'll love thee ever.
Native land! though fate may banish, And command me far to part, Never can thy memory vanish From this glowing, grateful heart! Let an Indian solstice burn me, Or the snows of Norway chill, Hither still, my heart I turn thee— Here, my country, thou art still. Caledonia! native land! Native land, I'll love thee ever.