OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# The "Bab" Ballads/Captain Reece

THE “BAB” BALLADS.
CAPTAIN REECE.
OF all the ships upon the blue, No ship contained a better crew
Than that of worthy Captain Reece,
Commanding of The Mantelpiece.
He was adored by all his men, For worthy Captain Reece, R.N., Did all that lay within him to Promote the comfort of his crew.
If ever they were dull or sad, Their captain danced to them like mad, Or told, to make the time pass by, Droll legends of his infancy.
A feather bed had every man, Warm slippers and hot-water can, Brown Windsor from the captain's store, A valet, too, to every four.
Did they with thirst in summer burn? Lo, seltzogenes at every turn, And on all very sultry days Cream ices handed round on trays.
Then currant wine and ginger pops Stood handily on all the "tops;" And, also, with amusement rife, A "Zoetrope, or Wheel of Life."
New volumes came across the sea From Mister Mudie's libraree; The Times and Saturday Review Beguiled the leisure of the crew.
Kind-hearted Captain Reece, R.N., Was quite devoted to his men; In point of fact, good Captain Reece, Beatified The Mantelpiece.
One summer eve, at half-past ten, He said (addressing all his men): "Come, tell me, please, what I can do To please and gratify my crew.
"By any reasonable plan I'll make you happy if I can; My own convenience count as nil; It is my duty, and I will."
Then up and answered Willam Lee, (The kindly captain's coxwain he, A nervous, shy, low-spoken man) He cleared his throat and thus began:
"You have a daughter, Captain Reece, Ten female cousins and a niece, A ma, if what I'm told is true, Six sisters, and an aunt or two.
"Now, somehow, sir, it seems to me, More friendly-like we all should be. If you united of 'em to Unmarried members of the crew.
"If you'd ameliorate our life, Let each select from them a wife; And as for nervous me, old pal, Give me your own enchanting gal!"
Good Captain Reece, that worthy man, Debated on his coxswain's plan: "I quite agree," he said, "O Bill; It is my duty, and I will.
"My daughter, that enchanting gurl,
Has just been promised to an earl,
And all my other familee, To peers of various degree.
"But what are dukes and viscounts to
The happiness of all my crew?
The word I gave you I'll fulfil;
It is my duty, and I will.
"As you desire it shall befall,
I'll settle thousands on you all,
And I shall be, despite my hoard, The only bachelor on board."
The boatswain of The Mantelpiece,
He blushed and spoke to Captain Reece:
"I beg your honor's leave," he said,
"If you would wish to go and wed,
"I have a widowed mother who
Would be the very thing for you—
She long has loved you from afar,
She washes for you, Captain R."
The captain saw the dame that day— Addressed her in his playful way—
"And did it want a wedding ring?
It was a tempting ickle sing!
"Well, well, the chaplain I will seek,
We'll all be married this day week—
At yonder church upon the hill;
It is my duty, and I will!"
The sisters, cousins, aunts, and niece,
And widowed ma of Captain Reece,
Attended there as they were bid;
It was their duty, and they did.
# The "Bab" Ballads/Haunted

HAUNTED.
HAUNTED? Aye, in a social way,
 By a body of ghosts in dread array:
But no conventional spectres they— Appalling, grim, and tricky:
I quail at mine as I'd never quail
At a fine traditional spectre pale,
With a turnip head and a ghostly wail,
And a splash of blood on the dicky!
Mine are horrible, social ghosts,
Speeches and women and guests and hosts,
Weddings and morning calls and toasts,
In every bad variety:
Ghosts who hover about the grave
Of all that's manly, free, and brave:
You'll find their names on the architrave Of that charnel-house, Society.
Black Monday—black as its school-room ink— With its dismal boys that snivel and think
Of its nauseous messes to eat and drink,
And its frozen tank to wash in.
That was the first that brought me grief
And made me weep, till I sought relief
In an emblematical handkerchief,
To choke such baby bosh in.
First and worst in the grim array—
Ghosts of ghosts that have gone their way,
Which I wouldn't revive for a single day
For all the wealth of Plutus—
Are the horrible ghosts that school-days scared:
If the classical ghost that Brutus dared
Was the ghost of his "Cæsar" unprepared,
I'm sure I pity Brutus.
I pass to critical seventeen;
The ghost of that terrible wedding scene,
When an elderly colonel stole my queen,
And woke my dream of heaven.
No school-girl decked in her nurse-room curls
Was my gushing innocent queen of pearls;
If she wasn't a girl of a thousand girls,
She was one of forty-seven!
I see the ghost of my first cigar— Of the thence-arising family jar— Of my maiden brief (I was at the bar),
(I called the judge, "Your wushup!")
Of reckless days and reckless nights, With wrenched-off knockers, extinguished lights,
Unholy songs, and tipsy fights,
Which I strove in vain to hush up.
Ghosts of fraudulent joint-stock banks,
Ghosts of "copy, declined with thanks,"
Of novels returned in endless ranks, And thousands more, I suffer.
The only line to fitly grace
My humble tomb, when I've run my race,
Is, "Reader, this is the resting place
Of an unsuccessful duffer."
I've fought them all, these ghosts of mine,
But the weapons I've used are sighs and brine,
And now that I'm nearly forty-nine,
Old age is my chiefest bogy;
For my hair is thinning away at the crown, And the silver fights with the worn-out brown;
And a general verdict sets me down
As an irreclaimable fogy.
# The "Bab" Ballads/Ben Allah Achmet

BEN ALLAH ACHMET;
Or, The Fatal Tum.
I ONCE did know a Turkish man
Whom I upon a two-pair-back met,
His name it was Effendi Khan
Backsheesh Pasha Ben Allah Achmet.
A Doctor Brown I also knew—
I've often eaten of his bounty—
The Turk and he they lived at Hooe,
In Sussex, that delightful county!
I knew a nice young lady there,
Her name was Isabella Sherson,
And though she wore another's hair,
She was an interesting person.
The Turk adored the maid of Hooe
(Although his harem would have shocked her);
But Brown adored that maiden, too:
He was a most seductive doctor.   They'd follow her where'er she'd go—
A course of action most improper;
She neither knew by sight, and so
For neither of them cared a copper.
Brown did not know that Turkish male,
He might have been his sainted mother:
The people in this simple tale
Are total strangers to each other.   One day that Turk he sickened sore
Which threw him straight into a sharp pet;
He threw himself upon the floor
And rolled about upon his—carpet.
It made him moan—it made him groan
And almost wore him to a mummy:
Why should I hesitate to own
That pain was in his little tummy?
At length a Doctor came and rung
(As Allah Achmet had desired)
Who felt his pulse, looked up his tongue,
And hummed and hawed, and then inquired:
"Where is the pain that long has preyed
Upon you in so sad a way, sir?"
The Turk he giggled, blushed, and said,
"I don't exactly like to say, sir."
"Come, nonsense!" said good Doctor Brown,
So this is Turkish coyness, is it?
You must contrive to fight it down—
Come, come, sir, please to be explicit."
The Turk he shyly bit his thumb, And coyly blushed like one half-witted,
"The pain is in my little tum" He, whispering, at length admitted.
"Then take you this, and take you that—
Your blood flows sluggish in its channel—
You must get rid of all this fat,
And wear my medicated flannel.
"You'll send for me, when you're in need—
My name is Brown—your life I've saved it!"
"My rival!" shrieked the invalid,
And drew a mighty sword and waved it:
"This to thy weazand, Christian pest!"
Aloud the Turk in frenzy yelled it,
And drove right through the Doctor's chest
The sabre and the hand that held it.
The blow was a decisive one
And Doctor Brown grew deadly pasty— "Now see the mischief that you've done,—
You Turks are so extremely hasty.
"There are two Doctor Browns in Hooe,
He's short and stout—I'm tall and wizen;
You've been and run the wrong one through.
That's how the error has arisen."
The accident was thus explained,
Apologies were only heard now:
"At my mistake I'm really pained,
I am, indeed, upon my word now."
"With me, sir, you shall be interred,
A Mausoleum grand awaits me"—
"Oh, pray don't say another word,
I'm sure that more than compensates me.
"But p'r'aps, kind Turk, you're full inside?"
"There's room" said he, "for any number."
And so they laid them down and died.
In proud Stamboul they sleep their slumber.
# The Bobbsey Twins at the Seashore

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Third book in the Bobbsey Twins series. The second part of the summer is chronicled in The Bobbsey Twins at the Seashore, which is written as a direct sequel to the previous book, The Bobbsey Twins in the Country, tying up some plot threads. Rewritten (with major changes) in 1961 as The Bobbsey Twins: The Secret at the Seashore Warning: template has been deprecated.
THE BOBBSEY TWINS
AT THE SEASHORE
BY
LAURA LEE HOPE
AUTHOR OF "THE BOBBSEY TWINS," "THE BOBBSEY TWINS IN THE COUNTRY," ETC.
ILLUSTRATED
NEW YORK
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS
HE HAD ONLY GONE A FEW STROKES WHEN BERT APPEARED WITH NELLIE UNDER HIS ARM.
The Bobbsey Twins at the SeashoreFrontispiece
THE BOBBSEY TWINS SERIES
For Little Men and Women
By LAURA LEE HOPE
THE BOBBSEY TWINS Or, Merry Days Indoors and Out
THE BOBBSEY TWINS IN THE COUNTRY
THE BOBBSEY TWINS AT THE SEASHORE
Cloth. Small 8mo. Illustrated. Price, per volume, postpaid
Copyright, 1907
BY
CHATTERTON-PECK COMPANY
The Bobbsey Twins at the Seashore
CONTENTS
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.
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# The Book of Scottish Song/Barrochan Jean

Barrochan Jean.
[Robert Tannahill.—Air "Johnnie M'Gill."]
'Tis hinna ye heard, man, o' Barrochan Jean? And hinna ye heard, man, o' Barrochan Jean! How death and starvation came o'er the haill nation, She wraught sic mischief wi' her twa pawky een; The lads and the lasses were dying in dizzens, The taen kill'd wi' love, and the tither wi' spleen, The ploughing, the sawing, the shearing, the mawing, A' wark was forgotten for Barrochan Jean!
Frae the south and the north, o'er the Tweed and the Forth, Sic coming and ganging there never was seen, The comers were cheery, the gangers were blearie, Despairing, or hoping for Barrochan Jean. The carlins at hame were a' girning and graning, The bairns were a' greeting frae morning till e'en, They gat naething for crowdy, but runts boil'd to sowdie, For naething gat growing for Barrochan Jean.
The doctors declar'd it was past their descriving, The ministers said 'twas a judgment for sin, But they lookit sae blae, and their hearts were sae wae, I was sure they were dying for Barrochan Jean. The burns on road-sides were a' dry wi' their drinking, Yet a' wadna sloken the drouth i' their skin; A' around the peat-stacks, and alangst the dyke backs, E'en the winds were a' sighing, sweet Barrochan Jean.
The timmer ran done wi' the making o' coffins, Kirkyards o' their sward were a' howkit fu' clean, Dead lovers were packit like herring in barrels, Sic thousands were dying for Barrochan Jean. But mony braw thanks to the Laird o' Glen-Brodie, The grass owre their graffs is now bonnie and green, He sta' the proud heart of our wanton young lady, And spoil'd a' the charms o' her twa pawky een.
# The Book of Scottish Song/Beechen Tree

Beechen Tree.
[William Fergusson.—Here first printed.]
Beechen tree, ye was green, green, Warm winds blawin' your branches atween, When 'neath your shade, A simple maid! I met wi' my fause love late at e'en.
Beechen tree, his vows ye heard, Breathed saft in mony a sweet-waled word: Wha e'er could reck Sic vows would break? Nae dreams o' a snare has the younglin' bird.
Beechen tree, ye are bare, bare; Warm shelter now ye ha'e nane to spare— As 'neath your shade, Nae mair a maid, I cower me down i' the cauld night air.
Beechen tree, the comin' spring Will green leaves back to your branches bring: But spring, alas! May come an' pass, But canna renew my flourishing.
Beechen tree, bare beechen tree, The warld is fu' o' treacherie! And I maist could pray That, ere the day, Alane at your auld root I might dee!
# The Book of Scottish Song/Benlomond

Benlomond.
[John Mitchell.—Here first printed.]
Some may delight to spend their hours, By limpid streamlets fring'd with flowers, But give to me the wilds where towers Thy rocky crest, Benlomond.
Through leafy groves young love may stray, To sing the joys of rosy May, But bolder tones must fire his lay Whose theme's the proud Benlomond.
Dark clouds upon thy forehead rest, Bed lightnings play around thy crest, And storm runs riot on thy breast, Thou heed'st them not, Benlomond.
But when gay summer's in her prime, And balmy winds steal o'er our clime, Who would not dare thy heights sublime And glory in Benlomond.
There far above proud cities we With wonder fill'd will lean on thee, Awed by the gorgeous scenery That round thee spreads, Benlomond.
Sublimity sits throned on thee, Veil'd in the vast profoundity That stills, or wakes the inland sea That bathes thy feet, Benlomond.
# The Book of Scottish Song/Beneath a green shade

Beneath a green shade.
[This song is generally called "The Braes of Ballendine," because it is sung to the tune which goes by that name. The tune is ascribed to Oswald, but though it appears in his Pocket Companion, it has not the usual asterism affixed to his own compositions. The words are by Dr. Blacklock. Ferdinando Tenducci, the celebrated Italian singer of Scottish songs, who taught music at Edinburgh for many years during the latter half of the last century, used to sing this song publicly with great effect.—The Braes of Ballendine are gentle elevations which rise from the Carse of Gowrie towards the Sidlaw Hills.]
Beneath a green shade, a lovely young swain Ae evening reclined to discover his pain; So sad, yet so sweetly, he warbled his woe, The winds ceased to breathe, and the fountain to flow; Rude winds wi' compassion could hear him complain, Yet Chloe, less gentle, was deaf to his strain.
How happy, he cried, my moments once flew, Ere Chloe's bright charms first flash'd in my view! Those eyes then wi' pleasure the dawn could survey; Nor smiled the fair morning mair cheerful than they. Now scenes of distress please only my sight; I'm tortured in pleasure, and languish in light.
Through changes in vain relief I pursue, All, all but conspire my griefs to renew; From sunshine to zephyrs and shades we repair— To sunshine we fly from too piercing an air; But love's ardent fire burns always the same, No winter can cool it, no summer inflame.
But see the pale moon, all clouded, retires; The breezes grow cool, not Strephon's desires: I fly from the dangers of tempest and wind, Yet nourish the madness that preys on my mind. Ah, wretch! how can life be worthy thy care? To lengthen its moments, but lengthens despair.
# The Atlantic Monthly/Volume 18/Number 106

August 1866 Edition
THE
ATLANTIC MONTHLY.
A Magazine of Literature, Science, Art, and Politics.
VOL. XVIII.—AUGUST, 1866.—NO. CVI.
* How my New Acquaintances spin.
* What did she see with?
* The Miner.
* Physical History of the Valley of the Amazons.
* A Maniac's Confession.
* The Great Doctor.
* My Farm.
* Passages from Hawthorne's Note-Books.
* The Chimney-Corner for 1866.
* Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousy.
* London Forty Years Ago.
* A Year in Montana.
* Reviews and Literary Notices.
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# The Atlantic Monthly/Volume 18/Number 106/My Farm

Featured in Volume 18, Number 106 of The Atlantic Monthly. (August 1866)
MY FARM: A FABLE.
Within a green and pleasant land I own a favorite plantation, Whose woods and meads, if rudely planned, Are still, at least, my own creation. Some genial sun or kindly shower Has here and there wooed forth a flower, And touched the fields with expectation.
I know what feeds the soil I till, What harvest-growth it best produces. My forests shape themselves at will, My grapes mature their proper juices. I know the brambles and the weeds, But know the fruits and wholesome seeds,— Of those the hurt, of these the uses.
And working early, working late, Directing crude and random Nature, 'T is joy to see my small estate Grow fairer in the slightest feature. If but a single wild-rose blow, Or fruit-tree bend with April snow, That day am I the happiest creature! ​But round the borders of the land Dwell many neighbors, fond of roving; With curious eye and prying hand About my fields I see them moving. Some tread my choicest herbage down, And some of weeds would weave a crown, And bid me wear it, unreproving.
"What trees!" says one; "whoever saw A grove, like this, of my possessing? This vale offends my upland's law; This sheltered garden needs suppressing. My rocks this grass would never yield, And how absurd the level field! What here will grow is past my guessing."
"Behold the slope!" another cries: "No sign of bog or meadow near it! A varied surface I despise: There's not a stagnant pool to cheer it!" "Why plough at all?" remarked a third, "Heaven help the man!" a fourth I heard,— "His farm's a jungle: let him clear it!"
No friendly counsel I disdain: My fields are free to every comer; Yet that, which one to praise is fain, But makes another's visage glummer. I bow them out, and welcome in, But while I seek some truth to win Goes by, unused, the golden summer!
Ah! vain the hope to find in each The wisdom each denies the other; These mazes of conflicting speech All theories of culture smother. I'll raise and reap, with honest hand, The native harvest of my land; Do thou the same, my wiser brother!
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
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# The Atlantic Monthly/Volume 18/Number 105/To J. B.

Featured in Volume 18, Number 105 of The Atlantic Monthly. (July 1866)
TO J. B.
ON SENDING ME A SEVEN-POUND TROUT.
1.
FIT for an Abbot of Theleme, For the whole Cardinals' College, or The Pope himself to see in dream Before his lenten vision gleam, He lies there,—the sogdologer!
2.
His precious flanks with stars besprent, Worthy to swim in Castaly! The friend by whom such gifts are sent,— For him shall bumpers full be spent,—
3.
I see him trace the wayward brook Amid the forest mysteries, Where at themselves shy aspens look, Or where, with many a gurgling crook, It croons its woodland histories.
4.
I see leaf-shade and sun-fleck lend Their tremulous, sweet vicissitude To smooth, dark pool, to crinkling bend,— (O, stew him, Ann, as 't were your friend, With amorous solicitude!)
5.
I see him step with caution due, Soft as if shod with moccasins, Grave as in church,—and who plies you, Sweet craft, is safe as in a pew From all our common stock o' sins.
6.
The unerring fly I see him cast, That as a rose-leaf falls as soft,— A flash! a whirl! he has him fast! We tyros,—how that struggle last Confuses and appalls us oft!
7.
Unfluttered he; calm as the sky Looks on our tragicomedies, This way and that he lets him fly, A sunbeam-shuttle, then to die Lands him with cool aplomb, at ease.
8.
The friend who gave our board such gust,— Life's care, may he o'erstep it half, And when Death hooks him, as he must, He'll do it featly, as I trust, And J. H. write his epitaph!
9.
O, born beneath the Fishes' sign, Of constellations happiest, May he somewhere with Walton dine, May Horace send him Massic wine, And Burns Scotch drink,—the nappiest!
10.
And when they come his deeds to weigh, And how he used the talents his, One trout-scale in the scales he'll lay, (If trout had scales,) and 't will outsway The wrong side of the balances.
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
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# The Ancient Science of Numbers

The Ancient Science of Numbers.
The Practical Application of Its Principles In the Attainment of Health, Success, and Happiness.
THE FIRST BOOK OF INSTRUCTION.
By Luo Clement.
NEW YORK ROGER BROTHERS 1908.
COPYRIGHT, 1908, By Roger Brothers.
All rights reserved, including those of translation into foreign language.
In Preparation.
NUMERICAL VIBRATIONS;
A BOOK OF HIGHER INSTRUCTION IN THE SYSTEM OF DIVINE MATHEMATICS.
By Luo Clement Author of the Ancient Science of Numbers.
Orders for Copies of the First Edition are now Being Received.
Address: ROGER BROTHERS, Publishers, 82 Duane Street, New York.
CONTENTS.
PERSONAL NOTE.
The Author of “The Ancient Science of Numbers” will be pleased to receive any communication conerning the contents of this book.
Address
LUO CLEMENT,
Care ROGER BROS.
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
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# The Biographical Dictionary of America/Albright, Jacob

​ALBRIGHT, Jacob, bishop, was born in Pottstown, Pa., May, 1, 1759. His father, Jacob Albright, was a native of Germany, and by occupation a tile burner. The son was brought up to this business. In 1790 he became an exhorter, and soon after he entered the Methodist ministry, working among the Germans and making many converts. In 1800 he founded a separate church organization, known as the "Evangelical Association," and he was made the first presiding elder and in 1807 the first bishop. The sect is local and popularly known as "Albrights." Bishop Albright was greatly respected by the wide circle among whom he ministered. He died in 1808.
# The Biographical Dictionary of America/Aiken, Charles Augustus

​AIKEN, Charles Augustus, educator, was born at Manchester, Vt., Oct. 30, 1827, and was graduated from Dartmouth college in 1846, at the age of nineteen, and from Andover theological seminary in 1853. He was professor of Latin in Dartmouth college from 1859 to 1866, and at Princeton till 1869. He became president of Union college June 28, 1870, having discharged the duties of the office during the preceding year. In 1871 he accepted the Stuart professorship of the relation of philosophy and science to the Christian religion, and of Oriental and Old Testament literature in Princeton theological seminary, which he held until his death. He was editor of the Princeton Review, and a contributor to other periodicals. In 1870 he translated and edited "The Proverbs of Solomon Theologically and Homiletically Expounded." He died at Princeton, N.J., Jan. 14, 1892.
# The Biographical Dictionary of America/Aikman, William

​AIKMAN, William, clergyman, was born in New York city, Aug. 12, 1824, son of Robert and Sarah (Smith) Aikman. He was graduated at the University of the City of New York in 1846, receiving the degree D.D. in 1869; attended the Union theological seminary, 1846-'9; was pastor of various Presbyterian churches, serving that at Atlantic City, N. J., from 1883. He was moderator of the synod of Pennsylvania in 1863; a trustee of Wells female college, 1878-82, and author of: "Our Country, Strong in Her Isolation" (1851); "Seductive Powers of the Romish Church" (1860); "The Future of the Colored Race" (1862); "Government and Administration" (1863); "Commerce and Christianity" (1864); "Life at Home" (1870); "Moral Power of the Sea" (18—); "The Altar in the House" (1880); "Heavenly Recognitions" (1882), and "Talks on Married Life" (1883).