OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# The Annotated "Ulysses"/Page 007

Drawing back and pointing, Stephen said with bitterness:
— It is a symbol of Irish art. The cracked lookingglass of a servant.
Buck Mulligan suddenly linked his arm in Stephen’s and walked with him round the tower, his razor and mirror clacking in the pocket where he had thrust them.
— It’s not fair to tease you like that, Kinch, is it? he said kindly. God knows you have more spirit than any of them.
Parried again. He fears the lancet of my art as I fear that of his. The cold steel pen.
— Cracked lookingglass of a servant. Tell that to the oxy chap down- stairs and touch him for a guinea. He’s stinking with money and thinks you’re not a gentleman. His old fellow made his tin by selling jalap to Zulus or some bloody swindle or other. God, Kinch, if you and I could only work together we might do something for the island. Hellenise it.
Cranly’s arm. His arm.
— And to think of your having to beg from these swine. I’m the only one that knows what you are. Why don’t you trust me more? What have you up your nose against me? Is it Haines? If he makes any noise here I’ll bring down Seymour and we’ll give him a ragging worse than they gave Clive Kempthorpe.
Young shouts of moneyed voices in Clive Kempthorpe’s rooms. Pale- faces : they hold their ribs with laughter, one clasping another, O, I shall expire! Break the news to her gently, Aubrey! I shall die! With slit ribbons of his shirt whipping the air he hops and hobbles round the table, with trousers down at heels, chased by Ades of Magdalen with the tailor’s shears. A scared calf’s face gilded with marmalade. I don’t want to be debagged! Don’t you play the giddy ox with me!
Shouts from the open window startling evening in the quadrangle. A deaf gardener, aproned, masked with Matthew Arnold’s face, pushes his mower on the sombre lawn watching narrowly the dancing motes of grasshalms.
To ourselves... new paganism... omphalos.
— Let him stay, Stephen said. There’s nothing wrong with him except at night.
— Then what is it? Buck Mulligan asked impatiently. Cough it up. I’m quite frank with you. What have you against me now?
They halted, looking towards the blunt cape of Bray Head that lay on the water like the snout of a sleeping whale. Stephen freed his arm quietly.

## Annotations

lancet of my art Stephen is afraid of Mulligan's surgeon's scalpel, but Mulligan is afraid of Stephen's weapon - his pen (ie. he does not want to be portrayed unfavourably in a future literary work by Stephen).
# The Annotated "Ulysses"/Page 008

— Do you wish me to tell you? he asked.
— Yes, what is it? Buck Mulligan answered. I don’t remember anything.
He looked in Stephen’s face as he spoke. A light wind passed his brow, fanning softly his fair uncombed hair and stirring silver points of anxiety in his eyes.
Stephen, depressed by his own voice, said:
— Do you remember the first day I went to your house after my mother’s death?
Buck Mulligan frowned quickly and said:
— What? Where? I can’t remember anything. I remember only ideas and sensations. Why? What happened in the name of God?
— You were making tea, Stephen said, and I went across the landing to get more hot water. Your mother and some visitor came out of the drawing room. She asked you who was in your room.
— Yes? Buck Mulligan said. What did I say? I forget.
— You said, Stephen answered, O, it’s only Dedalus whose mother is beastly dead.
A flush which made him seem younger and more engaging rose to Buck Mulligan’s cheek.
— Did I say that? he asked. Well? What harm is that?
He shook his constraint from him nervously.
— And what is death, he asked, your mother’s or yours or my own? You saw only your mother die. I see them pop off every day in the Mater and Richmond and cut up into tripes in the dissecting room. It’s a beastly thing and nothing else. It simply doesn’t matter. You wouldn’t kneel down to pray for your mother on her deathbed when she asked you. Why? Because you have the cursed jesuit strain in you, only it’s injected the wrong way. To me it’s all a mockery and beastly. Her cerebral lobes are not functioning. She calls the doctor Sir Peter Teazle and picks buttercups off the quilt. Humour her till it’s over. You crossed her last wish in death and yet you sulk with me because I don’t whinge like some hired mute from Lalouette’s. Absurd! I suppose I did say it. I didn’t mean to offend the memory of your mother.
He had spoken himself into boldness. Stephen, shielding the gaping wounds which the words had left in his heart, said very coldly:
— I am not thinking of the offence to my mother.
— Of what, then? Buck Mulligan asked.
# The Annotated "Ulysses"/Page 013

He lunged towards his messmates in turn a thick slice of bread, impaled on his knife.
— That’s folk, he said very earnestly, for your book, Haines. Five lines of text and ten pages of notes about the folk and the fishgods of Dundrum. Printed by the weird sisters in the year of the big wind.
He turned to Stephen and asked in a fine puzzled voice, lifting his brows:
— Can you recall, brother, is mother Grogan’s tea and water pot spoken of in the Mabinogion or is it in the Upanishads?
— I doubt it, said Stephen gravely.
— Do you now? Buck Mulligan said in the same tone. Your reasons, pray?
— I fancy, Stephen said as he ate, it did not exist in or out of the Mabinogion. Mother Grogan was, one imagines, a kinswoman of Mary Ann.
Buck Mulligan’s face smiled with delight.
— Charming, he said in a finical sweet voice, showing his white teeth and blinking his eyes pleasantly. Do you think she was? Quite charming.
Then, suddenly overclouding all his features, he growled in a hoarsened rasping voice as he hewed again vigorously at the loaf:
    — For old Mary Ann
       She doesn’t care a damn,
       But, hising up her petticoats...
The doorway was darkened by an entering form.
— The milk, sir.
— Come in, ma’am, Mulligan said. Kinch, get the jug.
An old woman came forward and stood by Stephen’s elbow.
— That’s a lovely morning, sir, she said. Glory be to God.
— To whom? Mulligan said, glancing at her. Ah, to be sure.
Stephen reached back and took the milkjug from the locker.
— The islanders, Mulligan said to Haines casually, speak frequently of the collector of prepuces.
— How much, sir? asked the old woman.
— A quart, Stephen said.
He watched her pour into the measure and thence into the jug rich white
# The Black Moth

The Black Moth
A Romance of the XVIII Century
By Georgette Heyer
Boston and New York
Houghton Mifflin Company
1921
First Published, 1921.
Printed in Great Britain.
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published in 1921, before the cutoff of January 1, 1929.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1974, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 49 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# The Black Monkey

* Search for titles containing or beginning with: "The Black Monkey."
* sister projects: Wikidata item.
This is a disambiguation page. It lists works that share the same title. If an article link referred you here, please consider editing it to point directly to the intended page.
# The Book of Scottish Song/Peggy, I must love thee

Peggy, I must love thee.
I.
[This is the name of a very old Scottish air. It has been attributed to Purcell, the English composer, but it is found in MS. music books long before his day. Both Ramsay and Robert Crawfurd wrote words to the tune, which appear in the Tea-Table Miscellany. We give Ramsay's first.]
As from a rock past all relief, The shipwreck'd Colin spying His native soil, o'ercome with grief, Half sunk in waves, and dying: With the next morning sun he spies A ship, which gives unhop'd surprise; New life springs up, he lifts his eyes With joy, and waits her motion.
So when by her whom long I lov'd, I scorn'd was, and deserted, Low with despair my spirits mov'd, To be for ever parted: Thus droop'd I, till diviner grace I found in Peggy's mind and face; Ingratitude appear'd then base, But virtue more engaging.
Then now since happily I've hit, I'll have no more delaying; Let beauty yield to manly wit, We lose ourselves in staying: I'll haste dull courtship to a close, Since marriage can my fears oppose, Why should we happy minutes lose, Since, Peggy, I must love thee?
Men may be foolish, if they please, And deem't a lover's duty, To sigh, and sacrifice their ease, Doting on a proud beauty; Such was my case for many a year, Still hope succeeding to my fear, False Betty's charms now disappear, Since Peggy's far outshine them.
II.
[Robert Crawfurd.]
Beneath a beech's grateful shade, Young Colin lay complaining; He sigh'd and seem'd to love a maid, Without hopes of obtaining: For thus the swain indulged his grief, Though pity cannot move thee, Though thy hard heart gives no relief, Yet, Peggy, I must love thee,
Say, Peggy, what has Colin done, That thus thou cruelly use him? If love's a fault, 'tis that alone, For which you should excuse him: 'Twas thy dear self first rais'd this flame, This fire by which I languish; 'Tis thou alone can quench the same, And cool its scorching anguish.
For thee I leave the sportive plain, Where every maid invites me; For thee, sole cause of all my pain, For thee that only slights me: This love that fires my faithful heart By all but thee's commended, Oh! would thou act so good a part, My grief might soon be ended. ​That beauteous breast, so soft to feel, Seem'd tenderness all over, Yet it defends thy heart like steel, 'Gainst thy despairing lover. Alas! tho' it should ne'er relent, Nor Colin's care e'er move thee, Yet till life's latest breath is spent, My Peggy, I must love thee.
# The Book of Scottish Song/Peggy

Peggy.
[The heroine of this song was a young girl residing in Kirkoswald, with whom Burns got acquainted while attending a school there, in his eighteenth or nineteenth summer, with the view of learning mensuration, surveying, dialling, &c. His own account of the matter is as follows: "I went on with a high hand with my geometry till the sun entered Virgo, a month which is always a carnival in my bosom, when a charming fillette, who lived next door to the school, overset my trigonometry, and set me off at a tangent from the sphere of my studies. I, however, struggled on with my sines and co-sines for a few days more: but stepping into the garden one charming noon to take the sun's altitude, there I met my angel,
'Like Proserpine gathering flowers, Herself a fairer flower.'—
It was in vain to think of doing any more good at school. The remaining week I staid I did nothing but craze the faculties of my soul about her, or steal out to meet her; and the two last nights of my stay in the country, had sleep been a mortal sin, the image of this modest and innocent girl had kept me guiltless."—It may be thought prosaic to add, after this high-flown description, that the name of the "charming fillette" was Peggy Thomson, and that she afterwards became Mrs. Neilson, and long lived in the town of Ayr, where her children still reside.—The song is one of Burns's very early ones, and appears in the first edition of his poems printed at Kilmarnock in 1786, with the title of "Song composed in August." It is sung to the tune of "I had a horse, I had nae mair," and has also been adapted to an old air called "When the king came o'er the water."]
Now westlin' winds and slaughtering guns Bring autumn's pleasant weather; The muircock springs on whirring wings, Amang the blooming heather. Now waving grain, wide o'er the plain, Delights the weary farmer; And the moon shines bright when I rove night, To muse upon my charmer.
The partridge loves the fruitful fells; The plover loves the mountains, The woodcock haunts the lonely dells, The soaring hern the fountains. Through lofty groves the cushat roves, The path of man to shun it; The hazel bush o'erhangs the thrush, The spreading thorn the linnet.
Thus every kind their pleasure find, The savage and the tender; Some social join, and leagues combine; Some solitary wander:
Avaunt, away! the cruel sway, Tyrannic man's dominion; The sportman's joy, the murdering cry, The fluttering, gory pinion.
But, Peggy dear, the evening's clear, Thick flies the skimming swallow; The sky is blue, the fields in view, All fading green and yellow: Come let us stray our gladsome way, And view the charms o' nature, The rustling corn, the fruited thorn, And every happy creature.
We'll gently walk and sweetly talk, Till the silent moon shine clearly; I'll grasp thy waist, and fondly press't, And swear I love thee dearly. Not vernal showers to budding flowers, Not autumn to the farmer, So dear can be as thou to me, My fair, my lovely charmer!
# The Book of Scottish Song/Ours is the land

Ours is the land.
[Rev. Henry S. Riddell. Music by Peter Macleod.]
Ours is the land of gallant hearts, The land of lovely forms, The island of the mountain harp, The torrents, and the storms: The land that blooms with freeman's tread, And withers with the slaves; Where far and deep the green-woods spread, And wild the thistle waves.
Ere ever Ossian's lofty voice Had told of Fingal's fame; Ere ever from their native clime The Roman eagles came, Our land had given heroes birth That durst the boldest brave, And taught above tyrannic dust, The thistle tufts to wave.
What need we say how Wallace fought, And how his foemen fell, Or how on glorious Bannockburn The work went wild and well? Ours is the land of gallant hearts, The land of honour'd graves, Whose wreath of fame shall ne'er depart, While yet the thistle waves.
# The Book of Scottish Song/Ower Bogie

Ower Bogie.
["Ower Bogie" is a term applied to irregular or runaway marriages. The tune so called is a fine old one, but used to be sung to very indifferent words. The following is Ramsay's version. The first four lines are all that belong to the original song.]
I will awa' wi' my love, I will awa' wi' her, Though a' my kin had sworn and said, I'll ower bogie wi' her. If I can get but her consent, I dinna care a strae; Though ilka ane be discontent, Awa' wi' her I'll gae.
For now she's mistress o' my heart, And wordy o' my hand; And, weel I wat, we shanna part For siller or for land. Let rakes delight to swear and drink, And beaux admire fine lace; But my chief pleasure is to blink On Betty's bonnie face.
There a' the beauties do combine, Of colour, treats, and air; The saul that sparkles in her een Makes her a jewel rare; Her flowin' wit gives shining life To a' her other charms; How blest I'll be when she's my wife, And lock'd up in my arms!
There blythely will I rant and sing, While o'er her sweets I'll range; I'll cry, Your humble servant, king, Shame fa' them that wad change, A kiss of Betty and a smile, A'beit ye wad lay down The right ye ha'e to Britain's Isle, And offer me your crown.
# The Book of Scottish Song/Patie and Peggie

Patie and Peggie.
[From Ramsay's Gentle Shepherd.]
Patie.
By the delicious warmness of thy mouth, And rowing eye, which smiling tells the truth, I guess, my lassie, that, as weel as I, You're made for love, and why should ye deny?
Peggy.
But ken ye, lad, gin we confess o'er soon, Ye think us cheap, and syne the wooing's done: The maiden that o'er quickly tines her power, Like unripe fruit will taste but hard and sour.
Patie.
But when they hing o'er lang upon the tree, Their sweetness they may tine, and sae may ye: Red-cheeked you completely ripe appear, And I have thol'd and woo'd a lang half year.
Peggy.
Then dinna pu' me; gently thus I fa' Into my Patie's arms for good and a'; But stint your wishes to this frank embrace, And mint nae farther till we've got the grace.
Patie.
A charming armsfu'! hence, ye cares, away, I'll kiss my treasure a' the live-lang day; A' night I'll dream my kisses o'er again, Till that day come that ye'll be a' my ain. Sun, gallop down the westlin skies, Gang soon to bed, and quickly rise; O lash your steeds, post time away, And haste about our bridal day: And, if ye're wearied, honest light, Sleep, gin ye like, a week that night.
# The Book of Scottish Song/Peggie 2

Peggie.
[William Nicholson.]
Whan first I forgather'd wi' Peggie, My Peggie an' I were young: Sae blithe at the bught i' the gloamin' My Peggie an' I ha'e sung, My Peggie and I ha'e sung, Till the stars did blink sae hie; Come weel or come wae to the biggin', My Peggie was dear to me.
The stately aik stood on the mountain. And tower'd o'er the green birken shaw; Ilk glentin' wee flow'r on the meadow Seem'd proud o' bein' buskit sae braw, Seem'd proud o' bein' buskit sae braw, When they saw their ain shape i' the Dee; 'Twas there that I courted my Peggie, Till the kirk it fell foul o' me.
Though love it has little to look for Frae the heart that's wedded to gear, A wife without house or a haudin' Gars ane look right blate like an' queer; Gars ane baith look blate like an' queer; But queerer when twa turns to three; Our frien's they ha'e foughten an' flyten, But Peggie's aye dear to me.
It vex'd me her sighin' and sabbin', Now nought short o' marriage wou'd do; An' though that our prospects were dreary, What could I but e'en buckle to? What could I but e'en buckle to, And dight the sa't tear frae her e'e? The warl's a wearifu' wister; But Peggie's aye dear to me.
# The Book of Scottish Song/Peggy and Patie

Peggy and Patie.
[From Ramsay's "Gentle Shepherd."—Tune, "The Yellow-Hair'd Laddie."]
PEGGY.
When first my dear laddie gaed to the green hill, And I at ewe-milking first seyed my young skill, To bear the milk bowie nae pain was to me, When I at the bughting forgather'd wth thee.
PATIE.
When corn-riggs waved yellow, and blue heather-bells Bloom'd bonnie on moorland and sweet rising fells, Nae birns, brier, or bracken, gave trouble to me, If I found but the berries right ripened for thee.
PEGGY.
When thou ran, or wrestled, or putted the stane, And cam' aff the victor, my heart was aye fail Thy ilka sport manly gave pleasure to me, For nane can put, wrestle, or run swift as thee.
PATIE.
Our Jenny sings saftly the "Cowden Broom-knowes," And Rosie lilts sweetly the "Milking the Ewes," There's few "Jenny Nettles" like Nancy can sing; With, "Through the wood, Laddie," Bess gars our lugs ring.
But when my dear Peggy sings, with better skill, The "Boatman," "Tweedside," or the "Lass of the Mill," 'Tis many times sweeter and pleasing to me For though they sing nicely, they cannot like thee.
PEGGY.
How easy can lasses trow what they desire, With praises sae kindly increasing love's fire! Give me still this pleasure, my study shall be To make myself better and sweeter for thee.
# The Book of Scottish Song/Peggie 1

Peggie.
[James Hogg.]
The bittern's quavering trump on high, The beetle's drowsy distant hum, Have sung the daylight's lullaby, And yet my Peggie is not come. The golden primrose from the wood, The scented hawthorn's snowy flower, Mixed with the laurel's buds, I've strewed Deep in my maiden's woodland bower.
O come, my love, the branches link Above our bed of blossoms new, The stars behind their curtains wink, To spare thine eyes so soft and blue. No human eye nor heavenly gem, With envious smile, our bliss shall see; The mountain ash his diadem Shall spread to shield the dews from thee.
O let me hear thy-fairy tread Come gliding through the broomwood still, Then on my bosom lay thy head, Till dawning crown the distant hill. And I will watch thy witching smile, List what has caused thy long delay, And kiss thy melting lips the while, Till die the sweet perfume away.
# The Book of Scottish Song/Peggy, now the king's come

Peggy, now the king’s come.
[From Ramsay's "Gentle Shepherd."]
Peggy, now the king's come, Peggy, now the king's come, Thou may dance and I shall sing, Peggy, since the king's come.
Nae mair the hawkies shalt thou milk, But change thy plaiding-coat for silk, And be a lady of that ilk, Now, Peggy, since the king's come.
# The Boy and the Filberts

Perry index n/a
* "The Boy and the Filberts" by Aesop, translated by George Fyler Townsend, in Three Hundred Æsop's Fables (1887)
* "The Boy and the Filberts" by Aesop, translated by Vernon Stanley Jones, in Æsop's fables: A New Translation (1912)
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# The Annotated "Ulysses"/Page 094

— We are going the pace, I think, Martin Cunningham said.
— God grant he doesn’t upset us on the road, Mr Power said.
— I hope not, Martin Cunningham said. That will be a great race tomorrow in Germany. The Gordon Bennett.
— Yes, by Jove, Mr Dedalus said. That will be worth seeing, faith. As they turned into Berkeley street a streetorgan near the Basin sent over and after them a rollicking rattling song of the halls. Has anybody here seen Kelly? Kay ee double ell wy. Dead march from Saul. He’s as bad as old Antonio. He left me on my ownio. Pirouette! The Mater Misericordiæ. Eccles street. My house down there. Big place. Ward for incurables there. Very encouraging. Our Lady’s Hospice for the dying. Deadhouse handy underneath. Where old Mrs Riordan died. They look terrible the women. Her feeding cup and rubbing her mouth with the spoon. Then the screen round her bed for her to die. Nice young student that was dressed that bite the bee gave me. He’s gone over to the lying-in hospital they told me. From one extreme to the other.
The carriage galloped round a corner : stopped.
— What’s wrong now?
A divided drove of branded cattle passed the windows, lowing, slouching by on padded hoofs, whisking their tails slowly on their clotted bony croups. Outside them and through them ran raddled sheep bleating their fear.
— Emigrants, Mr Power said.
— Huuuh! the drover’s voice cried, his switch sounding on their flanks. Huuuh! out of that!
Thursday of course. Tomorrow is killing day. Springers. Cuffe sold them about twentyseven quid each. For Liverpool probably. Roast beef for old England. They buy up all the juicy ones. And then the fifth quarter is lost : all that raw stuff, hide, hair, horns. Comes to a big thing in a year. Dead meat trade. Byproducts of the slaughterhouses for tanneries, soap, margarine. Wonder if that dodge works now getting dicky meat off the train at Clonsilla.
The carriage moved on through the drove.
— I can’t make out why the corporation doesn’t run a tramline from the parkgate to the quays, Mr Bloom said. All those animals could be taken in trucks down to the boats.
— Instead of blocking up the thoroughfare, Martin Cunningham said. Quite right. They ought to.
— Yes, Mr Bloom said, and another thing I often thought is to have