OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# The Book of Scottish Song/The Covenanter's Tomb

The Covenanter's Tomb.
[Written by James Hogg.—Set to music in Smith's Scottish Minstrel.]
Oh 'tis a heart-stirring sight to view, Far to the westward stretching blue, That frontier ridge, which erst defied Th' invader's march, th' oppressor's ride. The bloody field, for many an age, Of rival nations' wasteful rage; In latter times a refuge given, To exiles in the cause of heaven.
Far inland, where the mountain crest O'erlooka the waters of the west, And 'midst the moorland wilderness, Dark moss-cleughs form a drear recess, Curtain'd with ceaseless mists, which feed The sources of the Clyde and Tweed; There injured Scotland's patriot band, For faith and freedom made their stand,
When traitor kings, who basely sold Their country's fame for Gallic gold, Too abject o'er the free to reign, Warn'd by a father's fate in vain— In bigot fury trampled down The race who oft preserved their crown— There, worthy of his masters, came The despots' champion, bloody Graham.
The human bloodhounds of the earth, To hunt the peasant from his hearth! Tyrants! could not misfortune teach, That man has rights beyond your reach? Thought ye the torture, and the stake, Could that intrepid spirit break; Which even in woman's breast withstood The terrors of the fire and flood?
Yes—though the sceptic's tongue deride Those martyrs who for conscience died; Though modish history blight their fame, And sneering courtiers hoot the name Of men, who dared alone be free Amidst a nation's slavery,— Yet long for them the poet's lyre Shall wake its notes of heavenly fire.
Their name shall nerve the patriot's hand, Upraised to save a sinking land; And piety shall learn to burn With holier transports o'er their urn! Sequester'd haunts!—so still—so fair, That holy faith might worship there,— The shaggy gorse and brown heath wave O'er many a nameless warrior's grave.
# The Book of Scottish Song/The Dainty Bit Plan

The Dainty Bit Plan.
[William Cross.—Air, "Brose and Butter."—Published originally in "The Penny Songster," Glasgow, 1839.]
Our May had an e'e to a man, Nae less than the newly-placed preacher; And we plotted a dainty bit plan For trapping our spiritual teacher, O, we were sly, sly! O, we were sly and sleekit! But ne'er say a herring is dry until it be reestit and reekit.
We treated young Mr. M'Gock, We plied him wi' tea and wi' toddy; And we praised every word that he spoke, Till wi' put him maist out o' the body. O, we were sly, sly! &c.
Frae the kirk we were never awa', Except when frae hame he was helping; And then May, and often us a', Gaed far and near after him skelping. O, we were sly, sly! &c.
We said aye, which our neighbours thought droll, That to hear him gang through wi' a sermon, Was, (though a wee dry on the whole,) As refreshing's the dew on Mount Hermon. O, we were sly! sly, &c.
But to come to the heart o' the nit— The dainty bit plan that we plotted Was to get a subscription afit, And a watch to the minister voted. O, we were sly, sly! &c.
The young women folk o' the kirk, By turns lent a hand in collecting; But May took the feck o' the wark, And the trouble the rest o' directing. O, we were sly, sly! &c. ​A gran' watch was gotten belyve, And May, wi' sma' prigging consentit To be ane o' a party o' five To gang to the manse and present it. O, we were sly, sly! &c.
W'e a' gied a word o' advice To May in a deep consultation, To ha'e something to say unco nice, And to speak for the hale deputation. O, we were sly, sly! &c.
Taking present and speech baith in hand, May delivered a bonnie palaver, To let Mr. M'Gock understand How zealous she was in his favour. O, we were sly, sly! &c.
She said that the gift was to prove, That his female friends valued him highly, But it couldna express a' their love; And she glintit her e'e at him slyly. O, we were sly, sly! &c.
He put the gold watch in his fab, And proudly he said he would wear it; And, after some flattering gab, Tauld May he was gaun to be marryit. O, we were sly, sly! O, we were sly and sleekit! But Mr. M'Gock was nae gowk, wi' our dainty bit plan to be cleekit.
May came hame wi' her heart to her mouth, And became, frae that hour, a dissenter, And now she's renewing her youth Wi' some hopes o' the burgher precentor. O, but she's sly, sly! O, but she's sly and sleekit! And cleverly opens ae door as soon as another is steekit.
# The Book of Scottish Song/The Day Returns

The Day Returns.
["I composed this song," says Burns, "out of compliment to one of the happiest and worthiest married couples in the world, Robert Riddel, Esq., of Glenriddel, and his lady. At their fireside I have enjoyed more pleasant evenings than at all the houses of fashionable people in the country put together; and to their kindness and hospitality I am indebted for many of the happiest hours in my life."—The song first appeared in Johnson's Museum to a tune composed by Mr. Riddel himself, which he called "The Seventh of November," that being the anniversary of his marriage."]
The day returns, my bosom burns, The blissful day we twa did meet; Though winter wild in tempest toil'd, Ne'er summer-sun was half sae sweet. Than a' the pride that loads the tide, And crosses o'er the sultry line; Than kingly robes, than crowns and globes, Heaven gave me more—it made thee mine.
While day and night can bring delight, Or nature aught of pleasure give; While joys above my mind can move, For thee, and thee alone, I'll live! When that grim foe of life below Comes in between to make us part; The iron hand that breaks our band, It breaks my bliss—it breaks my heart.
# The Book of Scottish Song/The Corbie and Craw

The Corbie and Craw.
[Alex. Carlile.]
The corbie wi' his roupy throat, Cried frae the leafless tree, "Come o'er the loch, come o'er the loch, Come o'er the loch to me."
The craw put up his sooty head, And look'd o'er the nest whare he lay, And gied a flaf wi' his rousty wings, And cried "whare tae? whare tae?"
Cor. "Te pike a dead man that's lying A hint yon meikle stane." Cra. "Is he fat, is he fat, is he fat, is he fat? If no, we may let him alane."
Cor. "He cam' frae merry England, to steal The sheep, and kill the deer." Cra. "I'll come, I'll come, for an Englishman Is aye the best o' cheer."
Cor. "O we may breakfast on his breast, And on his back may dine; For the lave a' fled to their ain countrie, And they've ne'er been back sinsyne."
# The Book of Scottish Song/The Curler's Song

The Curler's Song.
[Air, "Cauld kail in Aberdeen."]
Whan chittering birds, on flicht'ring wing, About the barn doors mingle, And biting frost, and cranreuch cauld, Drive coofs around the ingle; ​Then to the loch the curlers hie, Their hearts as light's a feather, And mark the tee wi' mirth and glee, In cauld, cauld, frosty weather.
Our buirdly leaders down white ice, Their whinstones doure send snooving, And birks and brooms ply hard before, When o'er the hog-score moving; Till cheek by jowl within the brugh, They're laid 'side ane anither, Then round the tee we flock wi' glee, In cauld, cauld, frosty weather.
Wi' canny hand they neist play down, Their stanes o' glibber metal; Yet bunkers aftrn send aglee, Although they weel did ettle. "Now strike—no—draw—come fill the port," They roar, and cry, and blether; As round the tee we flock wi' glee, In cauld, cauld, frosty weather.
A stalwart chiel, to redd the ice, Drives roaring down like thunder; Wi' awfu' crash the double guards At ance are burst asunder; Rip raping on frae random wicks The winner gets a yether; Then round the tee we flock wi' glee, In cauld, cauld, frosty weather.
Our chief, whase skill and steady arm, Gain mony a bonspeil dinner, Cries, "Open wide—stand off behind, Fy, John, fy, show the winner; He goes—he moves—he rides him out The length of ony tether," Huzzas wi' glee rise round the tee, In cauld, cauld, frosty, weather.
But now the moon glints through the mist, The wind blaws snell and freezing, When straight we bicker aff in haste To whare the ingle's bleezing, In Curler Ha', sae bein and snug, About the board we gather Wi'mirth and glee, sirloin the tee, In cauld, cauld, frosty weather.
In canty cracks, and sangs and jokes, The night drives on wi' daffin', And mony a kittle shot is ta'en, While we're the toddy quaffing. Wi' heavy heart we're laith to part, But promise to forgether Around the tee neist morn wi' glee, In cauld, cauld, frosty weather.
# The Book of Scottish Song/The Covenanter's Lament

The Covenanter's Lament.
[Robert Allan.—Tune, "The Martyr's Grave."]
There's nae covenant now, lassie! There's nae covenant now! The solemn league and covenant Are a' broken through! There's nae Renwick now, lassie, There's nae gude Cargill, Nor holy Sabbath preaching Upon the Martyr’s Hill!
It's naething but a sword, lassie! A bluidy, bluidy ane; Waving owre poor Scotland For her rebellious sin. Scotland's a' wrang, lassie, Scotland's a' wrang— Its neither to the hill nor glen, Lassie, we daur gang.
The Martyr's Hill forsaken, In summer's dusk, sae calm; There's nae gathering now, lasie, To sing the e'enin' psalm! ​But the martyr's grave will rise, lassie, Aboon the warrior's cairn; An' the martyr soun' will sleep, lassie, Aneath the waving fern!
# The Book of Scottish Song/The Crook and Plaid

The Crook and Plaid.
[Rev. Henry S. Riddell.]
I winna lo'e the laddie that ca's the cart and pleugh, Though he should own that tender love that's only felt by few; For he that has this bosom a' to fondest love betray'd, Is the kind and faithfu' laddie that wears the crook and plaid.
At morn he climbs the mountains wild, his fleecy flock to view, When the larks sing in the heaven aboon, and the flowers wake 'mang the dew, When the thin mist melts afore the beam, ower gair and glen convey'd, Where the laddie loves to wander still, that wears the crook and plaid.
At noon he leans him dowm, high on the heathy fell, When his flocks feed a' sae bonnilie below him in the dell; And there he sings o' faithful love, till the wilds around are glad; Oh, how happy is the laddie that wears the crook and plaid!
He pu's the blooms o' heather pure, and the lily-flouir sae meek, For he weens the lily like my brow, and the heath-bell like my cheek. His words are soft and tender as the dew frae heaven shed; And nane can charm me like the lad that wears the crook and plaid.
Beneath the flowery hawthorn-tree, wild growing in the glen, He meets me in the gloamin' grey, when nane on earth can ken; And leal and tender is his heart beneath the spreading shade, For weel he kens the way, I trow, to row me in his plaid.
The youth o' mony riches may to his fair one ride, And woo across a table his many-titled bride; But we will woo beneath the tree, where cheek to cheek is laid— Oh, nae wooer's like the laddie that rows me in his plaid.
To own the tales o' faithfu' love, oh, wha wad no comply? Sin' pure love gi'es mair o' happiness than aught aneath the sky. Where love is in the bosom thus, the heart can ne'er be sad; Sae, throush life, I'll lo'e the laddie that wears the crook and plaid.
# The Book of Scottish Song/The Cooper of Fife

The Cooper of Fife.
There was a wee cooper who lived in Fife, Nickity, nackity, noo, noo, noo. And he has gotten a gentle wife. Hey Willie Wallacky, how John Dougall, Alane, quo' rushety, roue, roue, roue.
She wadna bake, nor she wadna brew, Nickety, &c. For the spoiling o' her comely hue, Hey Willie, &c.
She wadna card, nor she wadna spin, Nickety, &c. For the shaming o' her gentle kin, Hey Willie, &c.
She wadna wash, nor she wadna wring, Nickety, &c. For the spoiling o' her gouden ring, Hey Willie, &c.
The cooper's awa' to his woo pack, Nickety, &c. And has laid a sheep skin on his wife's back, Hey Willie, &c.
It's I'll no thrash ye for your proud kin, Nickety, &c. But I will thrash my ain sheep skin, Hey Willie, &c.
Oh! I will bake and I will brew, Nickety, &c. And never mair think on my comely hue, Hey Willie, &c. ​Oh! I will card and I will spin, Nickety, &c. And never mair think on my gentle kin, Hey Willie, &c.
Oh! I will wash and I will wring, Nickety, &c. And never mair think on my gouden ring, Hey Willie, &c.
A' ye wha ha'e gotten a gentle wife, Nickety, nackety, woo, woo, woo; Send ye for the wee cooper o' Fife, Hey Willie Wallacky, how John Dougall, Alane, quo' rushety, roue, roue, roue.
# The Book of Scottish Song/The Country Lass

The Country Lass.
[This ditty, which breathes so much homely sense and rural contentment, is marked as an old song in the Tea-Table Miscellany. It is at least older than the beginning of last century, as it appears in "Pills to Purge Melancholy" (2d vol. circa 1700,) where it is erroneously directed to be sung to the tune of "Cold and Raw." The genuine old air of "The Country Lass" is given in Johnson's Museum. The comparatively modern tune of "Sally in our alley" somewhat resembles it.]
Although I be but a country lass, Yet a lofty mind I bear, O; And think mysel' as rich as those That rich apparel wear, O. Although my gown be hame-spun grey, My skin it is as saft, O, As them that satin weeds do wear, And geek their heads aloft, O.
What though I keep my father's sheep, The thing that maun be done, O; With garlands o' the finest flowers, To shade me frae the sun, O? When they are feeding pleasantly, Where grass and flowers do spring, O; Then, on a flowery bank, at noon, I set me down and sing, O.
My Paisley piggy, corked with sage, Contains my drink but thin, O; No wines did e'er my brains engage, To tempt my mind to sin, O. My country curds and wooden spoon, I think them unco fine, O; And on a flowery bank, at noon, I set me doun and dine, O.
Although my parents cannot raise Great bags of shining gold, O, Like them whase daughters, now a-days, Like swine, are bought and sold, O: Yet my fair body it shall keep An honest heart within, O; And for twice fifty thousand crovns, I value not a prin, O.
I use nae gums upon my hair, Nor chains about my neck, O, Nor shining rings upon my hands, My fingers straight to deck, O. But for that lad to me shall fa', And I have grace to wed, O, I'll keep a braw that's worth them a'; I mean my silken snood, O.
If cannie fortune give to me The man I dearly love, O, Though he want gear, I dinna care, My hands I can improve, O; Expecting for a blessing still Descending from above, O; Then we'll embrace, and sweetly kiss, Repeating tales of love, O.
# The Collected Works of Theodore Parker/Volume 05

See Preface.
CONTENTS.
THE
COLLECTED WORKS
OF
THEODORE PARKER
MINISTER OF THE TWENTY-EIGHTH CONGREGATIONAL SOCIETY AT BOSTON, U.S.
CONTAINING HIS
THEOLOGICAL, POLEMICAL, AND CRITICAL WRITINGS, SERMONS, SPEECHES, AND ADDRESSES, AND LITERARY MISCELLANIES.
EDITED BY
FRANCES POWER COBBE.
VOL. V.
SERMONS OF THEISM, ATHEISM, AND THE POPULAR THEOLOGY.
Second Edition.
LONDON:
N. TRÜBNER & CO., 60, PATERNOSTER ROW.
1867.
JOHN CHILDS AND SON, PRINTERS.
DISCOURSES
OF
SLAVERY.
BY
THEODORE PARKER.
LONDON: TRÜBNER & CO., 60, PATERNOSTER ROW. 1863.
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 Collected Poems of Dora Sigerson Shorter/At Christmas-Time

From The Collected Poems of Dora Sigerson Shorter (1907).
AT CHRISTMAS-TIME
For that old love I once adored I deck my halls and spread my board At Christmas-time. With all the winter's flowers that grow I wreathe my room, and mistletoe Hangs in the gloom of my doorway, Wherein my dear lost love might stray When joy bells chime.
What phantom was it entered there And dnmk his wine and took his chair At Christmas-time? With holly boughs and mistletoe He crowned his head, and at my woe And tears I shed laughed long and loud; “Get back, O phantom! to thy shroud When joy bells chime,”
# The Collected Poems of Dora Sigerson Shorter/An Eastern God

From The Collected Poems of Dora Sigerson Shorter (1907).
AN EASTERN GOD
I saw an Eastern God to-day; My comrades laughed; lest I betray My secret thoughts, I mocked him too. His many hands (he had no few, This God of gifts and charity), The marble face, that smiled on me, I mocked, and said, “O God unthroned. Lone exile from the faith you owned, No priest to bring you sacrifice, No censer with its breath of spice, No land to mourn your funeral pyre; King, whose subjects felt your fire, Now dead, now stone, without a slave, Unfeared, unloved, you have no grave. Poor God, who cannot understand! And what of your fair Eastern land, What dark brows brushed your dusky feet, What warm hearts on your marble beat, With many a prayer unanswered?” My comrades laughed and passed. I said, “If in those lands you wander still. In spirit, God, and work your will,” I whispered in the marble ear So low—because the walls might hear— The painted lips they smiled at me— “O guard my love, where'er he be.”
# The Collected Poems of Dora Sigerson Shorter/An Eclipse

From The Collected Poems of Dora Sigerson Shorter (1907).
AN ECLIPSE
Let there be an end And all be done; Pass over, fair edipse, That hides the sun.
Dear face that shades the light And shadows me, Begone, and give me peace, And set me free.
# The Collected Poems of Dora Sigerson Shorter/As the Sparks Fly Upward

From The Collected Poems of Dora Sigerson Shorter (1907).
AS THE SPARKS FLY UPWARD
The little babe I held upon my knee Had not yet banished from his sleeping eyes The dreams of some lost world from which he came, Nor missed some angel-choir&d paradise.
Strange little soul that claimed me not his own By glance or smile, but with no seeing gaze Looked to me who, aU timid, dared to call This wonder mine, and held it in amaze.
I prayed, “When comes the light of consciousness Of things that be to hold him so he seek To know what place life now had set him in, And at whose mercy left, so young and weak,
“Let it be mine, the face he first shall see Bent on him, full of welcome and of joy, So that his smile, on thus beholding love, The pain of coming tears shall half destroy.
“Or if some day he looks to learn, and I Am not beside, oh ! let it be the sun Or some fair thing shall greet his seeing eyes. So he shall find life good and well begun.”
Beside the fire I held him dose, and sang Some sweet child ditty, bidding him to sleep, And broke the log to make it flame and glow; Then in his eyes I saw a wonder creep.
Now peeped the soul from out his startled gaze. “Look first on me,” I cried, “my little child!” But from my kiss he held his face away. And as the sparks flew up he saw and smiled.
# The Collected Poems of Dora Sigerson Shorter/An Irish Blackbird

From The Collected Poems of Dora Sigerson Shorter (1907).
AN IRISH BLACKBIRD
This is my brave singer. With his beak of gold; Now my heart's a captive In his song's sweet hold.
O, the lark's a rover, Seeking fields above: But my serenader Hath a human love.
“Hark!” he says, “in winter Nests are full of snow, But a truce to wailing, Summer breezes blow.
“Hush!” he sings, “with night-time Phantoms cease to be, Join your serenader Piping on his tree.”
O, my little lover. Warble in the blue; Windless must I envy Skies so wide for you.
# The Collected Poems of Dora Sigerson Shorter/All Souls' Eve

From The Collected Poems of Dora Sigerson Shorter (1907).
ALL SOULS' EVE
I cried all night to you, I called till day was here; Perhaps you could not come, Or were too tired, dear.
Your chair I set by mine, I made the dim hearth glow, I whispered, “When he comes I shall not let him go.”
I closed the shutters tight, I feared the dawn of day, I stopped the busy clock That timed your hours away.
Loud howled my neighbour's dog, O glad was I to hear! The dead are going by, Now you will come, my dear,
To take the chair by mine— Until the cock do crow— O, if it be you came And could not let me know!
For once a shadow passed Behind me in the room, I thought your loving eyes Would meet mine in the gloom.
And once I thought I heard A footstep by my chair, I raised my eager hands, But no sweet ghost was there.
We were too wide apart— You in your spirit land— I knew not when you came, I could not understand.
Your eyes perhaps met mine, Reproached me through the gloom, Alas, for me alone The empty, empty room!
The dead were passing home. The cock crew loud and clear, Mavourneen, if you came, I knew not you were here.
# The Collected Poems of Dora Sigerson Shorter/All Souls' Night

From The Collected Poems of Dora Sigerson Shorter (1907).
ALL SOULS' NIGHT
[There is a superstition in some parts of Ireland that the dead are allowed to return to earth on the 2nd of November (All Souls' Night), and the peasantry leave food and fire for their comfort, and set a chair by the hearth for their resting before they themselves retire to bed.]
O mother, mother. I swept the hearth, I set his chair and the white board spread, I prayed for his-coming to our land Lady when Death's sad doors would let out the dead; A strange wind rattled the window-pane, and down the lane a dog howled on. I called his name and the candle flame burnt dim, pressed a hand the door-latch upon. Deelish! Deelish! my woe forever that I could not sever coward flesh from fear. I called his name and the pale Ghost came; but I was afraid to meet my dear.
O mother, mother, in tears I checked the sad hours past of the year that's o'er. Till by God's grace I might see his face and hear the sound of his voice once more; The chair I set from the cold and wet, he took when he came from unknown skies Of the Land of the Dead, on my bent brown head I felt the reproach of his saddened eyes; I closed my lids on my heart's desire, crouched by the fire, my voice was dumb. At my clean-swept hearth he had no mirth, and at my table he broke no crumb. Deelish! Deelish! my woe forever that I could not sever coward flesh from fear. His chair put aside when the young cock cried, and I was afraid to meet my dear.
# The Collected Poems of Dora Sigerson Shorter/A Wayward Rose

From The Collected Poems of Dora Sigerson Shorter (1907).
A WAYWARD ROSE
Mischievous rose from the rose-tree swaying, Can I not bind thee nor hold thee? Can I not weave thee nor fold thee In with thy sisters to staying? Vain is my passion or praying, Rose from the rose-tree swaying.
Wayward sweet rose from the rose-tree swinging, Can I not pass thee, forget thee? Can I not see to regret thee? In—'mid thy kindred's close ringing, Out—to my heart she comes winging, Rose from the rose-tree swinging.
Cruel red rose from the rose-tree swaying, Ever to worship thee, throne thee, Never to lose thee or own thee, Thy beauty to keep me from straying, Thy thorns for my passionate praying, Rose from the rose-tree swaying.
# The Collected Poems of Dora Sigerson Shorter/A Weeping Cupid

From The Collected Poems of Dora Sigerson Shorter (1907).
A WEEPING CUPID
Why, Love! I thought you were gay and fair,
Merry of mien and debonair.
What then means this brow so black,
Whose sullen gloom twin eyes give back,
Poor little god in tears, alack!
Why, Love! I thought in your smiling cheek
Dainty dimples played hide and seek;
Passing by like a winter's night,
With stormy sighs from lips all white.
Poor little god, how comes your plight?
A maiden said you were tall and bold,
With an arm of steel and a heart of gold;
Whose changing face would make her day;
When came a frown, the sunshine play
Of smiles would chase the clouds away.
A youth once said you were like a maid
With sunny hair in a golden braid;
Whose cheeks were each a rose uncurled;
And brow a lilybell unfurled;
The fairest maid in all the world.
Why, Love! I find you so weak and small,
A human child, not a god at all;
Two angry, sleepy eyes that cry,
Two little hands so soft and shy,
I'll hush you with a lullaby.
Come, Love!