OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# The Cambridge Carol Book/This happy morn the Maid hath borne

XIX. THIS HAPPY MORN THE MAID HATH BORNE
1.This happy morn the Maid hath borne The Lord of bliss eternal: That God, who wrought all things from nought, Terrestrial, supernal: Tho' earth but gave this Babe a cave To be, at birth, His dwelling, ​The heav'nly star is telling To people yet in darkness set Of Jesus Christ, the Lord most high'st, The Sun that setteth never. The same, I say, both yesterday, Now this day, and for ever.
2.With triple gift three kings full swift Are hasting to adore Him: Where starlight shone, it led them on To kneel in faith afore Him. Next, on the lea some herdmen see, More sheen than light of thunder, A great and mighty wonder; When from the sky an Angel high Declar'd the birth of God on earth; The welcome Gospel story. Then hosts aloft sang loud and soft: 'To God on high be glory!'
# The Cambridge Carol Book/Thus on Easter-morrow

XLV. THUS ON EASTER-MORROW
Part I.
1.Thus on Easter-morrow Spake an Angel bright and clear; 'Tis no time for sorrow; Maries, be you of good cheer. Christ, arisen from His prison, Is not here.
2.'Why, as He were mortal, Lifeless in the sepulchre, Bring ye to the portal Of the empty chamber myrrh? What befel ye here, go tell ye, Nor defer.'
Part II.
1.Eya! Resurrexit Jesus Christus hodie; Mala nostra texit: Ideo concinite, Alleluya, Alleluya, Domine.
2.Resurrexit verè Pro peccante homine: Ideo sincerè, Christiani, psallite. 'Te cantamus, te laudamus, Domine.'
# The Cambridge Carol Book/To Bethlehem that night

Note from the choral edition: "Words of certain Troparia for Christmas, translated by G. R. W."
XXX. TO BETHLEHEM THAT NIGHT and WITH STRANGE AND WONDROUS WAYS
Ἐν Βηθλεὲμ συνέδραμον (December 26)
1.To Bethlehem that night, Taught by an Angel bright. While men lay fast asleep, The shepherd party ran To own Him God and man, True Shepherd of His sheep. Babe there they worship Him That rides the Cherubim: Where ox and ass be driven, Incarnate there they find The Maker of mankind: To Him be glory given!
Ἐξαίσιον δρόμον (December 25)
2.With strange and wondrous ways The Magi saw the rays Of one new-lighted Star. Star heretofore so sheen Their eyes had never seen: It shone from heav'n afar, And signified the birth Of Christ a King on earth: And rightly so they reckon'd; To save mankind forlorn This royal Babe was born, Whose Star to Bethlem beckon'd.
Νεηγενές (December 25)
3.'The new-born Bairn, where may He be, King Herod, say, Whose comet was aglow: ​For hither come are we, To bow to Him the knee.' This would the wise men know. But Herod, troubled sore, And Salem overmore, Was minded in his fury To fight with God, and kill, With semblance of good-will, The infant King of Jewry.
Ἠκρίβωσε χρόνον (December 25)
4.Then Herod straight would know What time the star gan show That led the Princes three To Bethlehem, that there With giftès, rich and rare, The Babe might honour'd be But, by our Lord's command, Safe in their native land By other road they find them. Thus did the Kings deride False Herod at that tide, And left him far behind them.
# The Cambridge Carol Book/To redeem a race forlorn

XXIX. TO REDEEM A RACE FORLORN
1.To redeem a race forlorn, When the nights were longest, In the sign of Capricorn, When the frost is strongest, 'Neath the gable of a stable, Early on a morn, Of a lowly Maiden, Holy Jesu, Thou wert born.
2.'Glory be to God on high; And on earth be granted Peace, Good-will to men,' hear I O'er the welkin chanted. Earth rejoices, hearing voices Arch-angelick sing, Anthem sweetest, as 'tis meetest, To the new-born King.
# The Cambridge Carol Book/Weep not o'er me, O Mother mine

XL. WEEP NOT O'ER ME, O MOTHER MINE
1.Weep not o'er me, O Mother mine, In grave to see me laid, The well-belovèd Son of thine, Y-born of Mary ever Maid.
2.For in glory I shall agen Arise, as God, and raise To glory faithful Christen men, Who honour thee with love and praise.
# The Complete Poems of Paul Laurence Dunbar/We Wear the Mask

We wear the mask that grins and lies, It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes,-- This debt we pay to human guile; With torn and bleeding hearts we smile, And mouth with myriad subtleties.
Why should the world be over-wise, In counting all our tears and sighs? Nay, let them only see us, while  We wear the mask.
We smile, but, O great Christ, our cries To thee from tortured souls arise. We sing, but oh the clay is vile Beneath our feet, and long the mile; But let the world dream otherwise,  We wear the mask!
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 Complete Poems of Paul Laurence Dunbar/When All Is Done

WHEN ALL IS DONE When all is done, and my last word is said, And ye who loved me murmur, "He is dead," Let no one weep, for fear that I should know, And sorrow too that ye should sorrow so.
When all is done and in the oozing clay, Ye lay this cast-off hull of mine away, Pray not for me, for, after long despair, The quiet of the grave will be a prayer.
For I have suffered loss and grievous pain, The hurts of hatred and the world's disdain, And wounds so deep that love, well-tried and pure, Had not the pow'r to ease them or to cure.
When all is done, say not my day is o'er, And that thro' night I seek a dimmer shore: Say rather that my morn has just begun,— I greet the dawn and not a setting sun,  When all is done.
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 Complete Poems of Paul Laurence Dunbar/W'en I Gits Home

W'EN I GITS HOME
It's moughty tiahsome layin' 'roun' Dis sorrer-laden earfly groun', An' oftentimes I thinks, thinks I, 'T would be a sweet t'ing des to die,  An' go 'long home.
Home whaih de frien's I loved 'll say, "We've waited fu' you many a day, Come hyeah an' res' yo'se'f, an' know You's done wid sorrer an' wid woe,  Now you's at home."
W'en I gits home some blessid day, I 'lows to th'ow my caihs erway, An' up an' down de shinin' street, Go singin' sof' an' low an' sweet,  W'en I gits home.
I wish de day was neah at han', I's tiahed of dis grievin' lan', I's tiahed of de lonely yeahs, I want to des dry up my teahs,  An' go 'long home.
Oh, Mastah, won't you sen' de call? My frien's is daih, my hope, my all. I 's waitin' whaih de road is rough, I want to hyeah you say, "Enough,  Ol' man, come home!"
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 Complete Poems of Paul Laurence Dunbar/When A Feller's Itchin' To Be Spanked

WHEN A FELLER'S ITCHIN' TO BE SPANKED
W'en us fellers stomp around, makin' lots o' noise, Gramma says, "There's certain times come to little boys W'en they need a shingle or the soft side of a plank;" She says "we're a-itchin' for a right good spank."  An' she says, "Now thes you wait,  It's a-comin'—soon or late, W'en a feller's itchin' fer a spank."
W'en a feller's out o' school, you know how he feels, Gramma says we wriggle 'roun' like a lot o' eels. W'y it's like a man that's thes home from out o' jail. What's the use o' scoldin' if we pull Tray's tail?  Gramma says, tho', "Thes you wait,  It's a-comin'—soon or late, You'se the boys that's itchin' to be spanked."
Cats is funny creatures an' I like to make 'em yowl, Gramma alwus looks at me with a awful scowl An' she says, "Young gentlemen, mamma should be thanked Ef you'd get your knickerbockers right well spanked."  An' she says, "Now thes you wait,  It's a-comin'—soon or late," When a feller's itchin' to be spanked.   Ef you fin' the days is gettin' awful hot in school An' you know a swimmin' place where it's nice and cool, Er you know a cat-fish hole brimmin' full o' fish, Whose a-goin' to set around school and wish?  'Tain't no use to hide your bait,  It's a-comin,—soon or late, Wen a feller's itchin' to be spanked.
Ol' folks know most ever'thing 'bout the world, I guess, Gramma does, we wish she knowed thes a little less, But I alwus kind o' think it 'ud be as well  Ef they wouldn't alwus have to up an' tell;  We kids wish 'at they'd thes wait,  It's a-comin'—soon or late, Wen a feller's itchin' to be spanked.
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 Complete Poems of Paul Laurence Dunbar/What's The Use

WHAT'S THE USE
What's the use o' folks a-frownin'  When the way's a little rough? Frowns lay out the road fur smilin'  You'll be wrinkled soon enough.  What's the use?
What's the use o' folks a-sighin'?  It's an awful waste o' breath, An' a body can't stand wastin'  What he needs so bad in death.  What's the use?
What's the use o' even weepin'?  Might as well go long an' smile. Life, our longest, strongest arrow,  Only lasts a little while.  What's the use?
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 Complete Poems of Paul Laurence Dunbar/When Sam'l Sings

WHEN SAM'L SINGS Hyeah dat singin' in de medders  Whaih de folks is mekin' hay? Wo'k is pretty middlin' heavy  Fu' a man to be so gay. You kin tell dey 's somep'n special  F'om de canter o' de song; Somep'n sholy pleasin' Sam'l,  W'en he singin' all day long.
Hyeahd him wa'blin' 'way dis mo'nin'  'Fo' 't was light enough to see. Seem lak music in de evenin'  Allus good enough fu' me. But dat man commenced to hollah  'Fo' he 'd even washed his face; Would you b'lieve, de scan'lous rascal  Woke de birds erroun' de place?
Sam'l took a trip a-Sad'day;  Dressed hisse'f in all he had, Tuk a cane an' went a-strollin',  Lookin' mighty pleased an' glad. Some folks don' know whut de mattah,  But I do, you bet yo' life; Sam'l smilin' an' a-singin'  'Case he been to see his wife.
She live on de fu' plantation,  Twenty miles erway er so; But huh man is mighty happy  Wen he git de chanst to go. Walkin' allus ain' de nices'—  Mo'nin' fin's him on de way— But he allus comes back smilin',  Lak his pleasure was his pay.
Den he do a heap o' talkin',  Do' he mos'ly kin' o' still, But de wo'ds, dey gits to runnin'  Lak de watah fu' a mill. "Whut 's de use o' havin' trouble,  Whut 's de use o' havin' strife?" Dat 's de way dis Sam'l preaches  W'en he been to see his wife.
An' I reckon I git jealous,  Fu' I laff an' joke an' sco'n, An' I say, "Oh, go on, Sam'l,  Des go on, an' blow yo' ho'n." But I know dis comin' Sad'day,  Dey 'll be brighter days in life; An' I 'll be ez glad ez Sam'l  W'en I go to see my wife.
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 Complete Poems of Paul Laurence Dunbar/Wading' In De Creek

WADIN' IN DE CRICK
Days git wa'm an' wa'mah,  School gits mighty dull, Seems lak dese hyeah teachahs  Mus' feel mussiful. Hookey's wrong, I know it  Ain't no gent'man's trick; But de aih's a-callin',  "Come on to de crick."
Dah de watah's gu'glin'  Ovah shiny stones, Des hit's ve'y singin'  Seems to soothe yo' bones. Wat's de use o' waitin'  Go on good an' quick: Dain't no fun lak dis hyeah  Wadin' in de crick.
W'at dat jay-b'ud sayin'?  Bettah shet yo' haid, Fus' t'ing dat you fin' out,  You'll be layin' daid. Jay-bu'ds sich a tattlah,  Des seem lak his trick Fu' to tell on folkses  Wadin' in de crick.
Wilier boughs a-bendin'  Hidin' of de sky, Wavin' kin' o' frien'ly  Ez de win' go by, Elum trees a-shinin',  Dahk an' green an' thick, Seem to say, "I see yo'  Wadin' in de crick."
But de trees don' chattah,  Dey des look an' sigh Lak hit's kin' o' peaceful  Des a-bein' nigh, An' yo' t'ank yo' Mastah  Dat dey trunks is thick W'en yo' mammy fin's you  Wadin' in de crick.
Den yo' run behin' dem  Lak yo' scaihed to def, Mammy come a-flyin',  Mos' nigh out o' bref; But she set down gentle  An' she drap huh stick,— An' fus' t'ing, dey's mammy  Wadin' in de crick.
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 Complete Poems of Paul Laurence Dunbar/Weltschmertz

WELTSCHMERTZ
You ask why I am sad to-day, I have no cares, no griefs, you say? Ah, yes, 't is true, I have no grief— But—is there not the falling leaf?
The bare tree there is mourning left With all of autumn's gray bereft; It is not what has happened me, Think of the bare, dismantled tree.
The birds go South along the sky, I hear their lingering, long good-bye. Who goes reluctant from my breast? And yet—the lone and wind-swept nest.
The mourning, pale-flowered hearse goes by, Why does a tear come to my eye? Is it the March rain blowing wild? I have no dead, I know no child.
I am no widow by the bier Of him I held supremely dear. I have not seen the choicest one Sink down as sinks the westering sun.
Faith unto faith have I beheld, For me, few solemn notes have swelled; Love bekoned me out to the dawn, And happily I followed on.
And yet my heart goes out to them Whose sorrow is their diadem; The falling leaf, the crying bird, The voice to be, all lost, unheard—
Not mine, not mine, and yet too much The thrilling power of human touch, While all the world looks on and scorns I wear another's crown of thorns.
Count me a priest who understands The glorious pain of nail-pierced hands; Count me a comrade of the thief Hot driven into late belief.
Oh, mother's tear, oh, father's sigh, Oh, mourning sweetheart's last good-bye, I yet have known no mourning save Beside some brother's brother's grave.
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 Complete Poems of Paul Laurence Dunbar/When Dey 'Listed Colored Soldiers

DEY was talkin' in de cabin, dey was talkin' in de hall; But I listened kin' o' keerless, not a-t'inkin' 'bout it all; An' on Sunday, too, I noticed, dey was whisp' rin' mighty much Stan'in' all erroun' de roadside w'en dey let us out o' chu'ch. But I did n't t'ink erbout it 'twell de middle of de week, An' my 'Lias come to see me, an' somehow he could n't speak. Den I seed all in a minute whut he'd come to see me for; -- Dey had 'listed colo'ed sojers an' my 'Lias gwine to wah.
Oh, I hugged him, an' I kissed him, an' I baiged him not to go; But he tol' me dat his conscience, hit was callin' to him so, An' he could n't baih to lingah w'en he had a chanst to fight For de freedom dey had gin him an' de glory of de right. So he kissed me, an' he lef' me, w'en I'd p'omised to be true; An' dey put a knapsack on him, an' a coat all colo'ed blue. So I gin him pap's ol' Bible f'om de bottom of de draw', -- W'en dey 'listed colo'ed sojers an' my 'Lias went to wah.
But I t'ought of all de weary miles dat he would have to tramp, An' I could n't be contented w'en dey tuk him to de camp. W'y my hea't nigh broke wid grievin' 'twell I seed him on de street; Den I felt lak I could go an' th'ow my body at his feet. For his buttons was a-shinin', an' his face was shinin', too, An' he looked so strong an' mighty in his coat o' sojer blue, Dat I hollahed, "Step up, manny," dough my th'oat was so' an' raw, -- W'en dey 'listed colo'ed sojers an' my 'Lias went to wah.
Ol' Mis' cried w'en mastah lef' huh, young Miss mou'ned huh brothah Ned, An' I did n't know dey feelin's is de ve'y wo'ds dey said W'en I tol' 'em I was so'y. Dey had done gin up dey all; But dey only seemed mo' proudah dat dey men had hyeahed de call. Bofe my mastahs went in gray suits, an' I loved de Yankee blue, But I t'ought dat I could sorrer for de losin' of 'em too; But I could n't, for I did n't know de ha'f o' whut I saw, 'Twell dey 'listed colo'ed sojers an' my 'Lias went to wah.
Mastah Jack come home all sickly; he was broke for life, dey said; An' dey lef' my po' young mastah some'r's on de roadside, -- dead. W'en de women cried an' mou'ned 'em, I could feel it thoo an' thoo, For I had a loved un fightin' in de way o' dangah, too. Den dey tol' me dey had laid him some'r's way down souf to res', Wid de flag dat he had fit for shinin' daih acrost his breas'. Well, I cried, but den I reckon dat 's whut Gawd had called him for, W'en dey 'listed colo'ed sojers an' my 'Lias went to wah.
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 Child's Own Music Book/Baa! Baa! Black Sheep

BAA! BAA! BLACK SHEEP
# The Child's Own Music Book/Baby Bunting

BABY BUNTING
# The Child's Own Music Book/Chinese Lullaby

CHINESE LULLABY
# The Child's Own Music Book/Dance, Dolly, Dance

DANCE, DOLLY, DANCE
# The Child's Own Music Book/Dickory, Dickory, Dock

DICKORY, DICKORY, DOCK
# The Child's Own Music Book/Baby Bye, Here's a Fly

BABY BYE, HERE'S A FLY
# The Child's Own Music Book/Bed-Time

BED-TIME
| 3. The butterfly, drowsy, Has folded its wing; The bees are returning, No more the birds sing. Their labour is over, their nestlings are fed; It's time little people were going to bed! | 4. Good-night, little people, Good-night and good-night Sweet dreams to your eyelids Till dawning of light; The evening has come, there's no more to be said, It's time little people were going to bed! |
# The Child's Own Music Book/Cradle Song (Brahms)

The lyrics here are the traditional English translation
CRADLE SONG
J. Brahms
# The Child's Own Music Book/Cradle Song (Weber)

CRADLE SONG
C. M. Von Weber
# The Child's Own Music Book/Dance a Baby Diddy

DANCE A BABY DIDDY
# The Boys' Life of Mark Twain/Chapter 61

LXI
dictations at dublin, n. h.
FOLLOWING his birthday dinner, Mark Twain had become once more the "Belle of New York," and in a larger way than ever before. An editorial in the Evening Mail referred to him as a kind of joint Aristides, Solon, and Themistocles of the American metropolis, and added:
Things have reached a point where, if Mark Twain is not at a public meeting or banquet, he is expected to console it with one of his inimitable letters of advice and encouragement.
​In May the dictations were transferred to Dublin, New Hampshire, to the long veranda of the Upton House, on the Monadnock slope. He wished to continue our work, he said; so the stenographer and
myself were presently located in the village, and drove out each morning, to sit facing one of the rarest views in all New England, while he talked of everything and anything that memory or fancy ​suggested. We had begun in his bedroom, but the glorious outside was too compelling.
The long veranda was ideal. He was generally ready when we arrived, a luminous figure in white flannels, pacing up and down before a background of sky and forest, blue lake, and distant hills. When it stormed we would go inside to a bright fire. The dictation ended, he would ask his secretary to play the orchestrelle, which at great expense had been freighted up from New York. In that high situation, the fire and the music and the stormbeat seemed to lift us very far indeed from reality. Certain symphonies by Beethoven, an impromptu by Schubert, and a nocturne by Chopin were the selections he cared for most, though in certain moods he asked for the Scotch melodies.
There was a good deal of social life in Dublin, but the dictations were seldom interrupted. He became lonely, now and then, and paid a brief visit to New York, or to Mr. Rogers in Fairhaven, but he always returned gladly, for he liked the rest and quiet, and the dictations gave him employment. A part of his entertainment was a trio of kittens which he had rented for the summer—rented because then they would not lose ownership and would find home and protection in the fall. He named the kittens Sackcloth and Ashes—Sackcloth being a black-andwhite kit, and Ashes a joint name owned by the two others, who were gray and exactly alike. All summer long these merry little creatures played up ​and down the wide veranda, or chased butterflies and grasshoppers down the clover slope, offering Mark Twain never-ending amusement. He loved to see them spring into the air after some insect, miss it, tumble back, and quickly jump up again with a surprised and disappointed expression.
In spite of his resolve not to print any of his autobiography until he had been dead a hundred years, he was persuaded during the summer to allow certain chapters of it to be published in The North American Review. With the price received, thirty thousand dollars, he announced he was going to build himself a country home at Redding, Connecticut, on land already purchased there, near a small country place of my own. He wished to have a fixed place to go each summer, he said, and his thought was to call it "Autobiography House."
# The Boys' Life of Mark Twain/Chapter 64

LXIV
a degree from oxford
ON my return I found Mark Twain elated: he had been invited to England to receive the degree of Literary Doctor from the Oxford University. It is the highest scholastic honorary degree; and to come back, as I had, from following the early wanderings of the barefoot truant of Hannibal, only to find him about to be officially knighted by the world's most venerable institution of learning, seemed rather the most surprising chapter even of his marvelous fairy-tale. If Tom Sawyer had owned the magic wand, he hardly could have produced anything as startling as that.
He sailed on the 8th of June, 1907, exactly forty years from the day he had sailed on the Quaker City to win his greater fame. I did not accompany him. He took with him a secretary to make notes, and my affairs held me in America. He was absent six weeks, and no attentions that England had ever paid him before could compare with her lavish welcome during this visit. His reception was really national. He was banqueted by the greatest clubs of London, he was received with special favor at the King's garden party, he traveled by a royal train, crowds ​gathering everywhere to see him pass. At Oxford when he appeared on the street the name Mark Twain ran up and down like a cry of fire, and the people came running. When he appeared on the stage at the Sheldonian Theater to receive his degree, clad in his doctor's robe of scarlet and gray, there arose a great tumult—the shouting of the undergraduates for the boy who had been Tom Sawyer and had played with Huckleberry Finn. The papers next day spoke of his reception as a "cyclone," surpassing any other welcome, though Rudyard Kipling was one of those who received degrees on that occasion, and General Booth and Whitelaw Reid, and other famous men.
Perhaps the most distinguished social honor paid to Mark Twain at this time was the dinner given him by the staff of London Punch, in the historic Punch editorial rooms on Bouverie Street. No other foreigner had ever been invited to that sacred board, where Thackeray had sat, and Douglas Jerrold and others of the great departed. Punch had already saluted him with a front-page cartoon, and at this dinner the original drawing was presented to him by the editor's little daughter, Joy Agnew.
The Oxford degree, and the splendid homage paid him by England at large, became, as it were, the crowning episode of Mark Twain's career. I think he realized this, although he did not speak of it—indeed, he had very little to say of the whole matter. I telephoned a greeting when I knew that he had arrived in New York, and was summoned to "come down and play billiards." I confess I went with a ​good deal of awe, prepared to sit in silence and listen to the tale of the returning hero. But when I arrived he was already in the billiard-room, knocking the balls about—his coat off, for it was a hot night. As I entered, he said:
"Get your cue—I've been inventing a new game."
That was all. The pageant was over, the curtain was rung down. Business was resumed at the old stand.