OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# The Complete Poems of Paul Laurence Dunbar/Chrismus On The Plantation

CHRISMUS ON THE PLANTATION
It was Chrismus Eve, I mind hit fu' a mighty gloomy day--  Bofe de weathah an' de people--not a one of us was gay;  Cose you 'll t'ink dat 's mighty funny 'twell I try to mek hit cleah,  Fu' a da'ky 's allus happy when de holidays is neah.
 But we wasn't, fu' dat mo'nin' Mastah 'd tol' us we mus' go,  He 'd been payin' us sence freedom, but he couldn't pay no mo';'  He wa'n't nevah used to plannin' 'fo' he got so po' an' ol',  So he gwine to give up tryin', an' de homestead mus' be sol'.
 I kin see him stan'in' now erpon de step ez cleah ez day,  Wid de win' a-kind o' fondlin' thoo his haih all thin an' gray;  An' I 'membah how he trimbled when he said, "It's ha 'd fu' me,  Not to mek yo' Chrismus brightah, but I 'low it wa'n't to be."
 All de women was a-cryin', an' de men, too, on de sly,  An' I noticed somep'n shinin' even in ol' Mastah's eye.  But we all stood still to listen ez ol' Ben come f'om de crowd  An' spoke up, a-try'n' to steady down his voice and mek it loud:--
 "Look hyeah, Mastah, I 's been servin' you' fu' lo! dese many yeahs,  An' now, sence we 's got freedom an' you 's kind o' po', hit 'pears  Dat you want us all to leave you 'cause you don't t'ink you can pay.  Ef my membry has n't fooled me, seem dat whut I hyead you say.
 "Er in othah wo'ds, you wants us to fu'git dat you 's been kin',  An' ez soon ez you is he'pless, we 's to leave you hyeah behin'.  Well, ef dat 's de way dis freedom ac's on people, white er black,  You kin jes' tell Mistah Lincum fu' to tek his freedom back.
 "We gwine wo'k dis ol' plantation fu' whatevah we kin git,  Fu' I know hit did suppo't us, an' de place kin do it yit.  Now de land is yo's, de hands is ouahs, an' I reckon we 'll be brave,  An' we 'll bah ez much ez you do w'en we has to scrape an' save."
 Ol' Mastah stood dah trimblin', but a-smilin' thoo his teahs,  An' den hit seemed jes' nachul-like, de place fah rung wid cheahs,  An' soon ez dey was quiet, some one sta'ted sof an' low:  "Praise God," an' den we all jined in, "from whom all blessin's flow!"
 Well, dey was n't no use tryin', ouah min's was sot to stay,  An' po' ol' Mastah could n't plead ner baig, ner drive us 'way,  An' all at once, hit seemed to us, de day was bright agin,  So evahone was gay dat night, an' watched de Chrismus in.
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/Circumstances Alter Cases

CIRCUMSTANCES ALTER CASES
Tim Murphy's gon' walkin' wid Maggie O'Neill,  O chone! If I was her muther, I'd frown on sich foolin',  O chone! I'm sure it's unmutherlike, darin' an' wrong To let a gyrul hear tell the sass an' the song Of every young felly that happens along,  O chone!
An' Murphy, the things that's be'n sed of his doin',  O chone! 'Tis a cud that no dacent folks wants to be chewin',  O chone! If he came to my door wid his cane on a twirl, Fur to thry to make love to you, Biddy, my girl, Ah, wouldn't I send him away wid a whirl,  O chone!
They say the gossoon is indecent and dirty,  O chone! In spite of his dressin' so.  O chone! Let him dress up ez foine ez a king or a queen, Let him put on more wrinkles than ever was seen, You'll be sure he's no match for my little colleen,  O chone!
Faith the two is comin' back an' their walk is all over,  O chone! 'Twas a pretty short walk fur to take wid a lover,  O chone! Why, I believe that Tim Murphy's a kumin' this way, Ah, Biddy jest look at him steppin' so gay, I'd niver belave what the gossipers say,  O chone!
He's turned in the gate an' he's coming a-caperin',  O chone! Go, Biddy, go quick an' put on a clane apern,  O chone! Be quick as ye kin fur he's right at the dure; Come in, master Tim, fur ye're welcome I'm shure. We were talkin' o' ye jest a minute before.  O chone!
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/Changing Time

CHANGING TIME The cloud looked in at the window,  And said to the day, "Be dark!" And the roguish rain tapped hard on the pane,  To stifle the song of the lark.
The wind sprang up in the tree tops  And shrieked with a voice of death, But the rough-voiced breeze, that shook the trees,  Was touched with a violet's breath.
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/Chrismus Is A-Comin'

CHRISMUS IS A-COMIN
Bones a-gittin' achy, Back a-feelin' col', Han's a-growin' shaky, Jes' lak I was ol'. Fros' erpon de meddah Lookin' mighty white; Snowdraps lak a feddah Slippin' down at night. Jes' keep t'ings a-hummin' Spite o' fros' an' showahs, Chrismus is a-comin' An' all de week is ouahs.
Little mas' a-axin', "Who is Santy Claus?" Meks it kin' o' taxin' Not to brek de laws. Chillun 's pow'ful tryin' To a pusson's grace Wen dey go a pryin' Right on th'oo you' face Down ermong yo' feelin's; Jes' 'pears lak dat you Got to change you' dealin's So 's to tell 'em true.
An' my pickaninny— Dreamin' in his sleep! Come hyeah, Mammy Jinny, Come an' tek a peep. Ol Mas' Bob an' Missis In dey house up daih Got no chile lak dis is, D' ain't none anywhaih. Sleep, my little lammy, Sleep, you little limb, He do' know whut mammy Done saved up fu' him. Dey 'll be banjo pickin', Dancin' all night thoo.
Dey 'll be lots o' chicken, Plenty tukky, too. Drams to wet yo' whistles So 's to drive out chills. Whut I keer fu' drizzles Fallin' on de hills? Jes' keep t'ings a-hummin' Spite o' col' an' showahs, Chrismus day 's a-comin', An' all de week is ouahs.
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/Christmas Carol

Christmas Carol
# The Complete Poems of Paul Laurence Dunbar/Breaking The Charm

BREAKING THE CHARM
Caught Susanner whistlin'; well, It's most nigh too good to tell. 'Twould 'a' b'en too good to see Ef it had n't b'en fur me, Comin' up so soft an' sly That she didn' hear me nigh. I was pokin' 'round that day, An' ez I come down the way, First her whistle strikes my ears,— Then her gingham dress appears; So with soft step up I slips. Oh, them dewy, rosy lips! Ripe ez cherries, red an' round, Puckered up to make the sound. She was lookin' in the spring, Whistlin' to beat anything,— "Kitty Dale" er "In the Sweet." I was jest so mortal beat That I can't quite ricoleck What the toon was, but I 'speck 'T was some hymn er other, fur Hymny things is jest like her. Well she went on fur awhile With her face all in a smile, An' I never moved, but stood Stiller 'n a piece o' wood— Would n't wink ner would n't stir, But a-gazin' right at her, Tell she turns an' sees me—my! Thought at first she 'd try to fly. But she blushed an' stood her ground. Then, a-slyly lookin' round, She says: "Did you hear me, Ben?" "Whistlin' woman, crowin' hen," Says I, lookin' awful stern. Then the red commenced to burn In them cheeks o' hern. Why, la! Reddest red you ever saw— Pineys wa'n't a circumstance. You 'd 'a' noticed in a glance She was pow'rful shamed an' skeart; But she looked so sweet an' peart, That a idee struck my head; So I up an' slowly said: "Woman whistlin' brings shore harm, Jest one thing 'll break the charm." "And what's that?" "Oh, my!" says I, "I don't like to tell you." "Why?" Says Susanner. "Well, you see It would kinder fall on me." Course I knowed that she 'd insist,— So I says: "You must be kissed By the man that heard you whistle; Everybody says that this 'll Break the charm and set you free From the threat'nin' penalty." She was blushin' fit to kill, But she answered, kinder still: "I don't want to have no harm, Please come, Ben, an' break the charm." Did I break that charm?—oh, well, There's some things I must n't tell. I remember, afterwhile, Her a-sayin' with a smile: "Oh, you quit,—you sassy dunce, You jest caught me whistlin' once." Ev'ry sence that when I hear Some one whistlin' kinder clear, I most break my neck to see Ef it 's Susy; but, dear me, I jest find I 've b'en to chase Some blamed boy about the place. Dad 's b'en noticin' my way, An' last night I heerd him say: "We must send fur Dr. Glenn, Mother; somethin 's wrong with Ben!"
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/By Rugged Ways

BY RUGGED WAYS
By rugged ways and thro' the night We struggle blindly toward the light; And groping, stumbling, ever pray For sight of long delaying day. The cruel thorns beside the road Stretch eager points our steps to goad, And from the thickets all about Detaining hands reach threatening out.
"Deliver us, oh, Lord," we cry, Our hands uplifted to the sky. No answer save the thunder's peal, And onward, onward, still we reel. "Oh, give us now thy guiding light;" Our sole reply, the lightning's blight. "Vain, vain," cries one, "in vain we call;" But faith serene is over all.
Beside our way the streams are dried, And famine mates us side by side. Discouraged and reproachful eyes Seek once again the frowning skies. Yet shall there come, spite storm and shock, A Moses who shall smite the rock, Call manna from the Giver's hand, And lead us to the promised land!
The way is dark and cold and steep, And shapes of horror murder sleep, And hard the unrelenting years; But 'twixt our sighs and moans and tears, We still can smile, we still can sing, Despite the arduous journeying. For faith and hope their courage lend, And rest and light are at the end.
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/Christmas

CHRISTMAS
Step wid de banjo an' glide wid de fiddle,  Dis ain' no time fu' to pottah an' piddle: Fu' Christmas is comin', it's right on de way,  An' dey's houahs to dance 'fo' de break o' de day.
What if de win' is taihin' an' whistlin'?  Look at dat' fiah how hit's spittin' an' bristlin'! Heat in de ashes an' heat in de cindahs,  Ol' mistah Fros' kin des look thoo de windahs.
Heat up de toddy an' pas' de wa'm glasses,  Don' stop to shivah at blowin's an' blas'es, Keep on de kittle an' keep it a-hummin',  Eat all an' drink all, dey's lots o' a-comin'.
Look hyeah, Maria, don't open dat oven,  Want all dese people a-pushin' an' shovin'? Res' f'om de dance? Yes, you done cotch dat odah,  Mammy done cotch it, an' law! hit nigh flo'd huh;
'Possum is monst'ous fu' mekin' folks fin' it!  Come, draw yo' cheers up, I's sho' I do' min' it. Eat up dem critters, you men folks an' wimmens,  'Possums ain' skace w'en dey's lots o' pu'simmons.
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/Christmas In The Heart

CHRISTMAS IN THE HEART
The snow lies deep upon the ground,  And winter's brightness all around  Decks bravely out the forest sere,  With jewels of the brave old year.  The coasting crowd upon the hill  With some new spirit seems to thrill;  And all the temple bells achime.  Ring out the glee of Christmas time.
 In happy homes the brown oak-bough  Vies with the red-gemmed holly now;  And here and there, like pearls, there show  The berries of the mistletoe.  A sprig upon the chandelier  Says to the maidens, "Come not here!"  Even the pauper of the earth  Some kindly gift has cheered to mirth!
 Within his chamber, dim and cold,  There sits a grasping miser old.  He has no thought save one of gain,--  To grind and gather and grasp and drain.  A peal of bells, a merry shout  Assail his ear: he gazes out  Upon a world to him all gray,  And snarls, "Why, this is Christmas Day!"
 No, man of ice,--for shame, for shame!  For "Christmas Day" is no mere name.  No, not for you this ringing cheer,  This festal season of the year.  And not for you the chime of bells  From holy temple rolls and swells.  In day and deed he has no part--  Who holds not Christmas in his heart!
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
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# The Count of Monte-Cristo/Volume 2/Frontispiece

Contents
# The Book of Scottish Song/The Emigrant's Complaint

The Emigrant's Complaint.
[Words by R. Gilfillan, Composed by P. M$^c$Leod.]
Oh, why left I my hame? Why did I cross the deep? Oh, why left I the land where my forefathers sleep? I sigh for Scotia's shore, and I gaze across the sea, But I canna get a blink o' my ain countrie.
The palm-tree waveth high, and fair the myrtle springs, And to the Indian maid the bulbul sweetly sings; But I dinna see the broom wi' its tassels on the lea, Nor hear the lintie's sang o' my ain countrie.
Oh! here no Sabbath bell awakes the Sabbath morn, Nor song of reapers heard among the yellow corn: For the tyrant's voice is here, and the wail of slaverie; But the sun of freedom shines in my ain countrie.
There's a hope for every woe, and a balm for ev'ry pain, But the first joys of our heart come never back again. There's a track upon the deep, and a path across the sea, But the weary ne'er return to their ain countrie.
# The Book of Scottish Song/The Deceiver

The Deceiver.
With tuneful pipe and hearty glee, Young Watty wan my heart; A blyther lad ye couldna see, All beauty without art. His winning tale Did soon prevail To gain my fond belief; But soon the swain Gangs o'er the plain, And leaves me full, and leaves me full, And leaves me full of grief.
Though Colin courts with tuneful sang, Yet few regard his mane, The lasses a' round Watty thrang, While Colin's left alane: In Aberdeen Was never seen A lad that gave sic pain; He daily wooes, And still pursues, Till he does all, till he does all, Till he does all obtain. ​But soon as he has gain'd the bliss, Away then does he run, And hardly will afford a kiss, To silly me undone: Bonnie Katy, Maggy, Beaty, Avoid the roving swain, His wyly tongue Be sure to shun, Or you like me, or you like me, Like me will be undone.
# The Book of Scottish Song/The Dumfries Volunteers

The Dumfries Volunteers.
[This admirable patriotic song was written by Burns in April, 1795, when Britain was threatened with invasion by the French republicans, and should have for ever put to rest any doubts that existed regarding the poet's love of country or loyalty. "Burns enrolled himself in the bands of gentlemen volunteers of Dumfries," says Allan Cunningham, "though not without opposition from some of the haughty Tories who demurred about his principles, which they called democratic. I remember well the appearance of that respectable corps: their odd, but not ungraceful, dress, white kerseymere breeches and waistcoat; short blue coat, faced with red; and round hat surmounted by a bearskin, like the helmets of our horse guards; and I remember the Poet also—his very swarthy face, his very ploughman-stoop, his large dark eyes, and indifferent dexterity in the handling of his arms." The song was originally printed in the Dumfries Journal, and said to be sung to the tune of "Push about the jorum." It was afterwards set to music by Stephen Clarke, and published as a single sheet song. It for a time enjoyed an extensive popularity.]
Does haughty Gaul invasion threat? Then let the loons beware, sir, There's wooden walls upon our seas, And volunteers on shore, sir. ​The Nith shall run to Corsincon,
And Criffel sink in Solway, Ere we permit a foreign foe On British ground to rally.
O let us not, like snarling curs, In wrangling be divided, Till slap come in an unco loon, And wi' a rung decide it. Be Britain still to Britain true, Among ourselves united; For never but by British hands Must British wrongs be righted.
The kettle o' the kirk and state, Perhaps a clout may fail in't, But deil a foreign tinkler loon Shall ever ca' a nail in't. Our fathers' blood the kettle bought, And who would dare to spoil it? By heaven, the sacrilegious dog Shall fuel be to boil it!
The wretch that would a tyrant own; And the wretch, his true-born brother, Who'd set the mob aboon the throne; May they be damned together! Who will not sing, "God save the king!" Shall hing as high 's the steeple; But while we sing, "God save the king!" We'll ne'er forget the people.
# The Book of Scottish Song/The Dusty Miller

The Dusty Miller.
[A fragment of an old song given in Johnson's Museum, Part II. 1788. The air is old, and was formerly played as a dancing-tune.]
Hey, the dusty miller, And his dusty coat! He will win a shilling, Ere he spend a groat. Dusty was the coat, Dusty was the colour; Dusty was the kiss, That I gat frae the miller!
Hey, the dusty miller, And his dusty sack! Leeze me on the calling Fills the dusty peck, ​Fills the dusty peck, Brings the dusty siller: I wad gi'e my coatie For the dusty miller.
# The Book of Scottish Song/The Drygate Brig

The Drygate Brig.
[Alexander Rodger.—Air, "The Cameronian Rant."—The Drygate Brig is a small bridge in the north-east and most ancient district of the city of Glasgow, which over-arches the far-famed Molendinar burn.]
Last Monday night, at sax o'clock, To Mirran Gibb's I went, man, To snuff, an' crack, an' toom the cap, It was my hale intent, man: So down I sat an' pried the yill, Syne luggit out my sneeshin mill, An' took a pinch wi' right good will, O' beggar's brown, (the best in town,) Then sent it roun' about the room, To gi'e ilk ane a scent, man.
The sneeshin' mill, the cap gaed round, The joke, the crack an' a', man, 'Bout markets, trade and daily news, To wear the time awa', man; Ye never saw a blither set, O' queer auld-feshion'd bodies met, For fient a grain o' pride nor pet, Nor eating care gat footing there, But friendship rare, aye found sincere, An' hearts without a flaw, man.
To cringing courtiers, kings may blaw, How rich they are an' great, man, But kings could match na us at a', Wi' a' their regal state, man; For Mirran's swats, sae brisk and fell, An' Turner's snuff, sae sharp an' snell, Made ilk ane quite forget himsel', Made young the auld, inflamed the cauld, And fired the saul wi' projects bauld, That daur'd the power o' fate, man.
But what are a' sic mighty schemes, When ance the spell is broke, man? A set o' maut-inspired whims, That end in perfect smoke, man. ​An' what like some disaster keen, Can chase the glamour frae our een, An' bring us to oursel's again? As was the fate o' my auld pate, When that night late, I took the gate, As crouse as ony cock, man.
For, sad misluck! without my hat, I doiting cam' awa', man, An' when I down the Drygate cam', The win' began to blaw, man. When I cam' to the Drygate Brig, The win' blew aff my guid brown wig, That whirled like ony whirligig, As up it flew, out o' my view, While I stood glowrin', waefu' blue, Wi' wide extended jaw, man.
When I began to grape for't syne, Thrang poutrin' wi' my staff, man, I coupet owre a meikle stane, An' skailed my pickle snuff, man My staff out o' my hand did jump, An' hit my snout a dreadfu' thump, Whilk raised a most confounded lump, But whar it flew, I never knew, Yet sair I rue this mark sae blue, It leuks sae fleesome waff, man.
O had you seen my waefu' plight, Your mirth had been but sma', man, An' yet, a queerer antic sight, I trow ye never saw, man. I've lived thir fifty years an' mair, But solemnly I here declare, I ne'er before met loss sae sair; My wig flew aff, I tint my staff, I skail'd my snuff, I peel'd my loof, An' brak my snout an' a', man.
Now wad ye profit by my loss? Then tak' advice frae me, man, An' ne'er let common sense tak' wing, On fumes o' barley bree, man; For drink can heeze a man sae high, As mak' his head 'maist touch the sky, But down he tumbles by-an'-by, Wi' sic a thud, 'mang stanes an' mud, That aft it's guid, if dirt an' bluid Be a' he has to dree, man.
# The Book of Scottish Song/The Emigrant's Farewell 1

The Emigrant's Farewell.
[Written by the late Thomas Pringle, in 1819, on his departure to Southern Africa. It first appeared in the Harp of Caledonia, Vol. III. and is adapted to the tune of "My guid Lord John."]
Our native land—our native vale— A long and last adieu! Farewell to bonny Tiviotdale, And Cheviot mountains blue.
Farewell, ye hills of glorious deeds, And streams renown'd in song— Farewell ye braes and blossom'd meads, Our hearts have lov'd so long.
Farewell, the blythesome broomy knowes, Where thyme and harebells grow— Farewell, the hoary, haunted howes, O'erhung with birk and sloe.
The mossy cave and mouldering tower That skirt our native dell— The martyr's grave, and lover's bower, We bid a sad farewell!
Home of our love! our father's home! Land of the brave and free! The sail is flapping on the foam That bears us far from thee!
We seek a wild and distant shore, Beyond the western main— We leave thee to return no more, Nor view thy cliffs again!
Our native land—our native vale— A long and last adieu! Farewell to bonny Teviotdale, And Scotland's mountains blue!
# The Book of Scottish Song/The Emigrant's Farewell 2

The Emigrant’s Farewell.
Green Albyn, farewell! though by us never more Should be welcomed the hills that encircle thy shore: Though to far distant worlds 'tis our fortune to roam, Still to thee shall we look as the land of our home!
Green Albyn, farewell! though thou fad'st on our sight, Are the deeds of our fathers not written in light? And cannot the tones of the pibroch display How they march'd to the field, how they won in the fray?
Green Albyn, farewell! though to us be not given For our country to strive, as our fathers have striven, 'Tween their ashes and us, though may roll the dark sea, Still their spirit is ours, and our hearts are with thee.
Green Albyn, farewell! though the glens of our pride Through the mist of the morn, shall no more be descried, Nor the deer on the hill; nor the cairn on the moor; Nor the chief of the hall;—we are thine as of yore!
Green Albyn, farewell! when our footsteps shall stray On the banks where Lake Erie expands to the day, In our bonnets the rough-bearded thistle shall twine, And be dear to our souls, as a symbol of thine!
Green Albyn, farewell! to thy rocks, to thy rills, To the eagles that build on the crest of thy hills, To the lake, to the forest, the moor and the dell, To thee, and thy children, green Albyn, farewell!
# The Book of Scottish Song/The Esk

The Esk.
[Rev. John Logan.—Tune, "Tweedside."]
While frequent on Tweed and on Tay, Their harps all the muses have strung; Should a river, more limpid than they, The wood-fringed Esk, flow unsung? While Kitty and Chloe inspire The poet with pastoral strains, Why silent the voice of the lyre On Mary, the pride of the plains?
Oh! nature's most beautiful works Are often unseen and unknown; And often in solitude lurks A form that should shine on a throne; In the wilderness blossoms the rose In beauty, retir'd from the sight; And Philomel warbles her woes Alone to the ear of the night.
How often the beauty is hid Amid shades that her triumphs deny How often the hero forbid From the path that conducts to the sky! A Helen has pin'd in the grove, A Homer has wanted his name, Unseen in the circle of love, Unknown in the temple of fame. ​Yet let us walk forth to the stream Where poets ne'er wander'd before, Enamour'd of Mary's sweet name, The echoes will spread to the shore; If the voice of the muse be divine, Thy beauties shall live in my lay, While reflecting the forest so fine, Sweet Esk o'er the valley shall stray.