OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Fall

FALL.
Now the yollow zun, a-runnèn  Daily round a smaller bow, Still wi’ cloudless sky’s a-zunnèn  All the sheenèn land below.  Vewer blossoms now do blow, But the fruit’s a-showèn  Reds an’ blues, an’ purple hues, By the leaves a-glowèn.
Now the childern be a-pryèn  Roun’ the berried bremble-bow, Zome a-laughèn, woone a-cryèn  Vor the slent her frock do show.  Bwoys be out a-pullèn low Slooe-boughs, or a-runnèn  Where, on zides of hazzle-wrides, Nuts do hang a-zunnèn.
Where do reach roun’ wheat-ricks yollow  Oves o’ thatch, in long-drawn ring, There, by stubbly hump an’ hollow,  Russet-dappled dogs do spring.  Soon my apple-trees wull fling Bloomèn balls below em,  That shall hide, on ev’ry zide Ground where we do drow em.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Fancy

FANCY.
In stillness we ha’ words to hear,  An’ sheäpes to zee in darkest night, An’ tongues a-lost can haïl us near,  An’ souls a-gone can smile in zight; When Fancy now do wander back  To years a-spent, an’ bring to mind  Zome happy tide a-left behind In’ weästèn life’s slow-beatèn track.
When feädèn leaves do drip wi’ raïn,  Our thoughts can ramble in the dry; When Winter win’ do zweep the plaïn  We still can have a zunny sky. Vor though our limbs be winter-wrung,  We still can zee, wi’ Fancy’s eyes,  The brightest looks ov e’th an’ skies, That we did know when we wer young.
​In païn our thoughts can pass to eäse,  In work our souls can be at plaÿ, An’ leäve behind the chilly leäse  Vor warm-aïr’d meäds o’ new mow’d haÿ. When we do vlee in Fancy’s flight  Vrom daily ills avore our feäce,  An’ linger in zome happy pleäce Ov mè’th an’ smiles, an’ warmth an’ light.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Farmer's Sons

FARMER’S SONS.
Ov all the chaps a-burnt so brown  By zunny hills an’ hollors, Ov all the whindlèn chaps in town  Wi’ backs so weak as rollers, There’s narn that’s half so light o’ heart,  (I’ll bet, if thou’t zay “done,” min,) An’ narn that’s half so strong an’ smart,  ’S a merry farmer’s son, min.
He’ll fling a stwone so true’s a shot,  He’ll jump so light’s a cat; He’ll heave a waïght up that would squot  A weakly fellow flat. ​He wont gi’e up when things don’t faÿ,  But turn em into fun, min; An’ what’s hard work to zome, is plaÿ  Avore a farmer’s son, min.
His bwony eärm an’ knuckly vist  (’Tis best to meäke a friend o’t) Would het a fellow, that’s a-miss’d,  Half backward wi’ the wind o’t. Wi’ such a chap at hand, a maïd  Would never goo a nun, min; She’d have noo call to be afraïd  Bezide a farmer’s son, min.
He’ll turn a vurrow, drough his langth,  So straïght as eyes can look, Or pitch all day, wi’ half his strangth,  At ev’ry pitch a pook; An’ then goo vower mile, or vive,  To vind his friends in fun, min, Vor maïden’s be but dead alive  ’Ithout a farmer’s son, min.
Zoo jaÿ be in his heart so light,  An’ manly feäce so brown; An’ health goo wi’ en hwome at night,  Vrom meäd, or wood, or down. O’ rich an’ poor, o’ high an’ low,  When all’s a-said an’ done, min, The smartest chap that I do know,  ’S a workèn farmer’s son, min.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Fatherhood

FATHERHOOD.
Let en zit, wi’ his dog an’ his cat,  Wi’ their noses a-turn’d to the vier,  An’ have all that a man should desire; But there idden much reädship in that. Whether vo’k mid have childern or no,  Wou’dden meäke mighty odds in the maïn; They do bring us mwore jaÿ wi’ mwore ho,  An’ wi’ nwone we’ve less jaÿ wi’ less païn. ​We be all lik’ a zull’s idle sheäre out, An’ shall rust out, unless we do wear out,  Lik’ do-nothèn, rue-nothèn,  Dead alive dumps.
As vor me, why my life idden bound  To my own heart alwone, among men;  I do live in myzelf, an’ ageän In the lives o’ my childern all round: I do live wi’ my bwoy in his plaÿ,  An’ ageän wi’ my maïd in her zongs; An’ my heart is a-stirr’d wi’ their jaÿ,  An’ would burn at the zight o’ their wrongs. I ha’ nine lives, an’ zoo if a half O’m do cry, why the rest o’m mid laugh  All so plaÿvully, jaÿvully,  Happy wi’ hope.
Tother night I come hwome a long road,  When the weather did sting an’ did vreeze; An’ the snow—vor the day had a-snow’d—  Wer avroze on the boughs o’ the trees; An’ my tooes an’ my vingers wer num’,  An’ my veet wer so lumpy as logs, An’ my ears wer so red’s a cock’s cwom’;  An’ my nose wer so cwold as a dog’s; But so soon’s I got hwome I vorgot Where my limbs wer a-cwold or wer hot,  When wi’ loud cries an’ proud cries  They coll’d me so cwold.
Vor the vu’st that I happen’d to meet  Come to pull my girtcwoat vrom my eärm,  An’ another did rub my feäce warm, An’ another hot-slipper’d my veet; While their mother did cast on a stick,  Vor to keep the red vier alive; ​An’ they all come so busy an’ thick  As the bees vlee-èn into their hive, An’ they meäde me so happy an’ proud, That my heart could ha’ crow’d out a-loud;  They did tweil zoo, an’ smile zoo,  An’ coll me so cwold.
As I zot wi’ my teacup, at rest,  There I pull’d out the taÿs I did bring;  Men a-kickèn, a-wagg’d wi’ a string, An’ goggle-ey’d dolls to be drest; An’ oh! vrom the childern there sprung  Such a charm when they handled their taÿs, That vor pleasure the bigger woones wrung  Their two hands at the zight o’ their jaÿs; As the bwoys’ bigger vaïces vell in Wi’ the maïdens a-titterèn thin,  An’ their dancèn an’ prancèn,  An’ little mouth’s laughs.
Though ’tis hard stripes to breed em all up,  If I’m only a-blest vrom above,  They’ll meäke me amends wi’ their love, Vor their pillow, their pleäte, an’ their cup; Though I shall be never a-spweil’d  Wi’ the sarvice that money can buy; Still the hands ov a wife an’ a child  Be the blessèns ov low or ov high; An’ if there be mouths to be ved, He that zent em can zend me their bread,  An’ will smile on the chile  That’s a-new on the knee.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/False Friends-like

FALSE FRIENDS-LIKE.
When I wer still a bwoy, an’ mother’s pride, A bigger bwoy spoke up to me so kind-like, “If you do like, I’ll treat ye wi’ a ride In theäse wheel-barrow here.” Zoo I wer blind-like To what he had a-workèn in his mind-like, An’ mounted vor a passenger inside; An’ comèn to a puddle, perty wide, He tipp’d me in, a-grinnèn back behind-like. Zoo when a man do come to me so thick-like, An’ sheäke my hand, where woonce he pass’d me by, An’ tell me he would do me this or that, I can’t help thinkèn o’ the big bwoy’s trick-like. An’ then, vor all I can but wag my hat An’ thank en, I do veel a little shy.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Faïr Emily of Yarrow Mill

FAIR EMILY OV YARROW MILL.
Dear Yarrowham, ’twer many miles  Vrom thy green meäds that, in my walk, I met a maïd wi’ winnèn smiles,  That talk’d as vo’k at hwome do talk; An’ who at last should she be vound, Ov all the souls the sky do bound, But woone that trod at vu’st thy groun’  Fair Emily ov Yarrow Mill.
​But thy wold house an’ elmy nook,  An’ wall-screen’d geärden’s mossy zides, Thy grassy meäds an’ zedgy brook,  An’ high-bank’d leänes, wi’ sheädy rides, Wer all a-known to me by light Ov eärly days, a-quench’d by night, Avore they met the younger zight  Ov Emily ov Yarrow Mill.
An’ now my heart do leäp to think  O’ times that I’ve a-spent in plaÿ, Bezide thy river’s rushy brink,  Upon a deäizybed o’ May; I lov’d the friends thy land ha’ bore. An’ I do love the paths they wore, An’ I do love thee all the mwore,  Vor Emily ov Yarrow Mill.
When bright above the e’th below  The moon do spread abroad his light, An’ aïr o’ zummer nights do blow  Athirt the vields in plaÿsome flight, ’Tis then delightsome under all The sheädes o’ boughs by path or wall, But mwostly thine when they do vall  On Emily ov Yarrow Mill.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Evenèn Twilight

EVENÈN TWILIGHT.
Ah! they vew zummers brought us round The happiest days that we’ve a-vound. When in the orcha’d, that did stratch To westward out avore the patch Ov high-bough’d wood, an’ shelve to catch  The western zun-light, we did meet  Wi’ merry tongues an’ skippèn veet  At evenèn in the twilight.
The evenèn aïr did fan, in turn, The cheäks the midday zun did burn. ​An’ zet the russlèn leaves at plaÿ, An’ meäke the red-stemm’d brembles sway In bows below the snow-white maÿ;  An’ whirlèn roun’ the trees, did sheäke  Jeäne’s raven curls about her neck,  They evenèns in the twilight.
An’ there the yollow light did rest Upon the bank towárd the west, An’ twitt’rèn birds did hop in drough The hedge, an’ many a skippèn shoe Did beät the flowers, wet wi’ dew,  As underneäth the tree’s wide limb  Our merry sheäpes did jumpy, dim,  They evenèns in the twilight.
How sweet’s the evenèn dusk to rove Along wi’ woone that we do love! When light enough is in the sky To sheäde the smile an’ light the eye ’Tis all but heaven to be by;  An’ bid, in whispers soft an’ light
 ’S the ruslèn ov a leaf, “Good night,”  At evenèn in the twilight.
An’ happy be the young an’ strong, That can but work the whole day long So merry as the birds in spring; An’ have noo ho vor any thing Another day mid teäke or bring;  But meet, when all their work’s a-done.  In orcha’d vor their bit o’ fun  At evenèn in the twilight.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Fanny's Be'th-day

FANNY’S BE’TH-DAY.
How merry, wi’ the cider cup, We kept poor Fanny’s be’th-day up! An’ how our busy tongues did run An’ hands did wag, a-meäkèn fun! What plaÿsome anticks zome ō’s done!  An’ how, a-reelèn roun’ an’ roun’,  We beät the merry tuèn down,  While music wer a-soundèn!
The maïdens’ eyes o’ black an’ blue Did glisten lik’ the mornèn dew; An’ while the cider-mug did stand A-hissèn by the bleäzèn brand, An’ uncle’s pipe wer in his hand,  How little he or we did think  How peäle the zettèn stars did blink  While music wer a-soundèn.
​An’ Fanny’s last young teen begun, Poor maïd, wi’ thik day’s risèn zun, An’ we all wish’d her many mwore Long years wi’ happiness in store; An’ as she went an’ stood avore  The vier, by her father’s zide,  Her mother dropp’d a tear o’ pride  While music wer a-soundèn.
An’ then we did all kinds o’ tricks Wi’ han’kerchiefs, an’ strings, an’ sticks: An’ woone did try to overmatch Another wi’ zome cunnèn catch, While tothers slyly tried to hatch  Zome geäme; but yet, by chap an’ maïd,  The dancèn wer the mwost injaÿ’d,  While music wer a-soundèn.
The briskest chap ov all the lot Wer Tom, that danc’d hizzelf so hot, He doff’d his cwoat an’ jump’d about, Wi’ girt new shirt-sleeves all a-strout, Among the maïdens screamèn out,  A-thinkèn, wi’ his strides an’ stamps,  He’d squot their veet wi’ his girt clamps,  While music wer a-soundèn.
Then up jump’d uncle vrom his chair, An’ pull’d out aunt to meäke a peäir; An’ off he zet upon his tooe. So light’s the best that beät a shoe, Wi’ aunt a-crièn “Let me goo:”  While all ov us did laugh so loud,  We drown’d the tuèn o’ the croud,  While music wer a-soundèn.
A-comèn out o’ passage, Nan, Wi’ pipes an’ cider in her han’, ​An’ watchèn uncle up so sprack, Vorgot her veet, an’ vell down smack Athirt the house-dog’s shaggy back,  That wer in passage vor a snooze,  Beyond the reach o’ dancers’ shoes,  While music wer a-soundèn.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Evenèn in the Village

EVENÈN IN THE VILLAGE.
Now the light o’ the west is a-turn’d to gloom,  An’ the men be at hwome vrom ground; An’ the bells be a-zendèn all down the Coombe  From tower, their mwoansome sound.  An’ the wind is still,  An’ the house-dogs do bark, An’ the rooks be a-vled to the elems high an’ dark.  An’ the water do roar at mill.
An’ the flickerèn light drough the window-peäne  Vrom the candle’s dull fleäme do shoot. An’ young Jemmy the smith is a-gone down leäne,  A-plaÿèn his shrill-vaïced flute.  An’ the miller’s man  Do zit down at his ease On the seat that is under the cluster o’ trees,  Wi’ his pipe an’ his cider can.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Fall Time

FALL TIME.
The gather’d clouds, a-hangèn low,  Do meäke the woody ridge look dim; An’ raïn-vill’d streams do brisker flow,  Arisèn higher to their brim. In the tree, vrom lim’ to lim’,  Leaves do drop Vrom the top, all slowly down, Yollow, to the gloomy groun’.
The rick’s a-tipp’d an’ weather-brown’d,  An’ thatch’d wi’ zedge a-dried an’ dead; An’ orcha’d apples, red half round,  Have all a-happer’d down, a-shed Underneath the trees’ wide head.  Ladders long, Rong by rong, to clim’ the tall Trees, be hung upon the wall.
The crumpled leaves be now a-shed  In mornèn winds a-blowèn keen; When they wer green the moss wer dead,  Now they be dead the moss is green. ​Low the evenèn zun do sheen  By the boughs, Where the cows do swing their taïls Over the merry milkers’ païls.
# Poets of John Company/Calcutta Stanzas for May

Calcutta Stanzas for the Month of May.
Happy the man, whose hair and beard Are glittering stiff with ice and snow, Whose purple face with sleet is sear'd. His nose also.
Happy the man whose fingers five Seem to have left him altogether. And feet are scarcely more alive In wintry weather.
And happier he, who heavenly cold. From warmth and sunshine far away, Lives till his freezing blood grows old At Hudson's Bay.
He in a beauteous basin, wrought Of frozen quicksilver, his feet May lave in water down to nought Of Fahrenheit.
The whole year round too, if he pleases, Far from the sun's atrocious beams He may, unbaked by burning breezes, Live on ice creams.
And if for comfort, or for pride, He wants shirt, breeches, coat, or vest; Let him but bathe, then step outside, And Lo—he's drest!
Drest in habiliments of ice, More bright than those of old put on At royal birthdays, by the nice Beau Skeffington.
Happy the man, again I sing, Who thus can freeze his life away, Far from this hot blast's blustering. At Hudson's Bay.
Oh that 'twere mine to be so blest. For while my very bones are grilling, The thoughts of such a place of rest Are really thrilling.
Instead of jackets, I would wear A coat of sleet, with snow lapelles, Neatly embroidered here and there With icicles.
Snow shoes should brace my burning feet. And how I should enjoy a shiver, While snow I'd drink, and snow I'd eat, To cool my liver.
But all in vain I sigh for lands Where happy cheeks with cold look blue. While here i' the shade the mercury stands At Ninety-two.
# Poets of John Company/Drinking no Sin

Drinking No Sin.
Let no good soul be thirsty, While I have wine to spare. Let no brave heart be careful, While I am free from care. So bring the jugs and glasses And let the lads come in; There's not a man of all their clan Who thinks good liquor a sin.
The Captain must have brandy To warm his ancient blood; The Doctor likes his negus And be sure you make it good; But the red red wine of Bordeaux The parson's praise will win. For he's not the man that will, or can Pronounce good liquor a sin.
The fire unto the wine, boys, A merrier lustre lends, As, basking in its sunshine. We drink to absent friends; For morning, or repentance, We will not care a pin; There's not a man of all our clan Who makes his liquor a sin.
# Poets of John Company/An Evening Walk in Bengal

An Evening Walk in Bengal.
Our task is done! on Gunga's breast The sun is sinking down to rest; And, moored beneath the tamarind bough. Our bark has found its harbour now. With furled sail and painted side Behold the tiny frigate ride. Upon her deck, 'mid charcoal gleams. The Moslem's savoury supper steams; While all apart, beneath the wood. The Hindoo cooks his simpler food.
Come walk with me the jungle through. If yonder hunter told us true. Far off, in desert dank and rude. The tiger holds its solitude; Nor (taught by recent harm to shun The thunders of the English gun) A dreadful guest but rarely seen. Returns to scare the village green.
Come boldly on! no venom'd snake Can shelter in so cool a brake: Child of the Sun, he loves to lie 'Midst Nature's embers, parch'd and dry, Where o'er some tower in ruin laid. The peepul spreads its haunted shade; Or round a tomb his scales to wreath, Fit warder in the gate of Death. Come on! yet pause! Behold us now Beneath the bamboo's arched bough, Where, gemming oft that sacred gloom Glows the geranium's scarlet bloom, And winds our path through many a bower Of fragrant tree and giant flower; The ceiba's crimson pomp displayed O'er the broad plantain's humbler shade. And dusk anana's prickly glade; While o'er the brake, so wild and fair. The betel waves his crest in air. With pendent train and rushing wings Aloft the gorgeous peacock springs; And he the bird of hundred dyes, Whose plumes the dames of Ava prize. So rich a shade, so green a sod Our English fairies never trod. Yet who in Indian bowers has stood. But thought on England's "good green wood," And bless'd beneath the palmy shade, Her hazel and her hawthorn glade. And breath'd a prayer, (how oft in vain) To gaze upon her oaks again? A truce to thought.—the jackal's cry Resounds like sylvan revelry; And through the trees yon failing ray Will scantly serve to guide our way. Yet mark, as fade the upper skies. Each thicket opes ten thousand eyes.
Before, beside us, and above, The fire-fly lights his lamp of love. Retreating, chasing, sinking, soaring, The darkness of the copse exploring, While to this cooler air confest, The broad Dhatura bares her breast Of fragrant scent and virgin white, A pearl around the locks of night. Still as we pass, in softened hum Along the breezy alleys come The village song, the horn, the drum.
Still as we pass, from bush and brier, The shrill Cigala strikes his lyre; And, what is she whose liquid strain Thrills through yon copse of sugar-cane? I know that soul-entrancing swell, It is—it must be—Philomel. Enough, enough, the rustling trees Announce a shower upon the breeze, The flashes of the summer sky Assume a deeper, ruddier dye; Yon lamp that trembles on the stream. From forth our cabin sheds its beam; And we must early sleep, to find Betimes the morning's healthy wind. But oh! with thankful hearts confess E'en here there may be happiness; And He, the bounteous Sire, has given His peace on earth,—His hope of heaven.
# Poets of John Company/Indian Revelry

WILLIAM FRANCIS THOMPSON.
1808—1842.
Indian Revelry.
We meet 'neath the sounding rafter. And the walls around are bare, As they shout to our peals of laughter, It seems that the dead are there; So stand to your glasses! steady! We drink in our comrades' eyes; A cup to the dead already— Hurrah! for the next that dies.
Not here are the goblets glowing, Not here is the vintage sweet; 'Tis cold, as our hearts are growing. And dark, as the doom we meet. But stand to your glasses! steady! And soon shall our pulses rise; Here's a cup to the dead already— Hurrah! for the next that dies.
There's many a hand that's shaking, And many a cheek that's sunk; But soon, though our hearts are breaking. They'll burn with the wine we've drunk. So stand to your glasses! steady! 'Tis here the revival lies; A cup to the dead already! And hurrah! for the next that dies.
Time was when we frowned at others. We thought we were wiser then; Ha! Ha! let them think of their mothers Who hope to see them again: Ho! stand to your glasses! steady! The thoughtless are here the wise; Here's a cup to the dead already— Hurrah! for the next that dies.
Not a sigh for the lot that darkles, Not a tear for the friends that sink; We'll fall, 'mid the wine cup's sparkles; As mute as the wine we drink: Come stand to your glasses! steady! 'Tis this that the respite buys; Quaff a cup to the dead already— Hurrah! for the next that dies.
There's mist on the glass congealing— 'Tis the hurricane's fiery breath; And thus does the warmth of feeling Turn ice in the grasp of death: But stand to your glasses! steady! For a moment the vapour flies; Here's a cup to the dead already— Hurrah! for the next that dies.
Who dreads to the dust returning? Who shrinks from the sable shore, Where the high and haughty yearning Of the soul shall sting no more? No! stand to your glasses! steady! The world is a world of lies: A cup to the dead already, And hurrah! for the next that dies.
Cut off from the land that bore us, Betrayed by the land we find, When the brightest have gone before us. And the dullest remain behind; Stand! stand! to your glasses! steady! 'Tis all we have left to prize; One cup to the dead already— Hurrah! for the next that dies.
# Poets of John Company/Address to My Malay Krees

Address to my Malay Krees.
Written while pursued by a French privateer off Sumatra.
Where is the arm I well could trust To urge the dagger in the fray? Alas! how powerless now its thrust, Beneath Malaya's burning day.
The sun has wither'd in their prime The nerves that once were strong as steel Alas! in danger's venturous time That I should live their loss to feel.
Yet still my trusty Krees prove true, If e'er thou serv'dst at need the brave, And thou shalt wear a crimson hue, Or I shall win a watery grave.
Now let thine edge like lightning glow, And, second but thy master's will, Malay ne'er struck a deadlier blow. Though practis'd in the art to kill.
O! by thy point! for every wound Where trace of Frankish blood hath been. A golden circle shall surround Thy hilt of agate smooth and green.
My trusty Krees now play thy part, And second well thy master's will! And I will wear thee next my heart. And many a life-blood owe thee still.
# Poets of John Company/John Company

WARREN HASTINGS.
1732—1818.
John Company.
From the days of Job Charnock, scarce known on record. To the triumphs of Plassey's redoubtable Lord, The Company traffick'd unheeded: She sent her ships forth, the wide ocean to roam, With rich cargoes well freighted, and brought richer home
And in all she adventur'd succeeded.
By oppression provok'd, she to arms had recourse, And soon made her oppressors submit to her force; From defensive proceeded offender: And her courage attemper'd with wisdom conspir'd To aggrandize her pow'r, till at length she acquir'd Of an empire entire the surrender.
Now the sages in schools of diplomacy bred, Civil doctors, divines, and state-moralists said— (And the senate confirm'd their opinion;) That for her, a mere trader (for what was she more?) Or her factors and clerks, from her counting-house door, To pretend to the rights of dominion;
That to give up the pen in exchange for the gun; To hold rule over nations—no matter how won:— To make treaties; assume legislature; Nay worse, of finance to distribute the drains, To elicit their currents, and pocket the gains; Was to gospel repugnant and nature.
So they stripped off her robe; but the loss to atone. His Majesty gave her a cloak of his own; Lent her armies and fleets for protectors; To diminish her cares, and to lighten their weight, For her guardians appointed the Lords of the State, And a Board to direct her Directors.
Thus equipp'd, and embrac'd by the beams of the throne. As once Semele, wrapp'd in Jove's attributes, shone, Now as meek and resigned as a martyr. With the guilt of imputed offences defil'd, By rapacity pilfer'd, by malice revil'd. She gave up the ghost, and her charter.
Though ignoble her birth, yet in death she may boast That her orb in the colours of glory was lost. Like the sun, when he sets in Orion; This reflection of comfort at least to produce— That her greatness arose from the quill of a goose,
And was crush'd by the paw of a lion.