OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# The Coming Colony/Appendix C

APPENDIX C.
RATE OF WAGES.
The following is taken from the excellent handbook issued by the Emigrants' Information Office.
The rate of wages in the towns is roughly as follows, in the country districts slightly lower:—
1. Without board and lodging—per day:
| Bakers | 8s. to 10s. |
| Blacksmiths | 8s. " 10s. |
| Boatbuilders | 8s. " 10s. |
| Brewers | 6s. " 8s. |
| Carpenters | 8s. " 10s. |
| Coachbuilders | 7s. " 10s. |
| Gardeners | 5s. 6d. to 6s. |
| General Labourers | 5s. to 7s. |
| Masons and Bricklayers | 8s. " 11s. |
| Miners | 10s. " 12s. |
| Navvies | 6s. " 8s. |
| Painters | 6s. " 8s. |
| Plasterers | 8s. " 10s. |
| Plumbers | 7s. " 9s. |
| Printers | 6s. " 10s. |
| Saddlers | 7s. to 10s. |
| Sawyers and Lumbermen | 6s. " 10s. |
| Shipwrights | 10s. |
| Shoemakers | $\scriptstyle {\left.{\begin{matrix}\ \end{matrix}}\right\}\,$ By piece work, average 6s. to 9s. a day. |
| Tailors | $\scriptstyle {\left.{\begin{matrix}\ \end{matrix}}\right\}\,$ By piece work, average 6s. to 9s. a day. |
| Tanners and Curriers | 6s. |
| Tinsmiths | 8s. |
| Tobacco Factory Operative | Piece work average £3 a week. |
| Wharf Labourers | 6s. to 7s. |
| Wheelwrights | 9s. " 10s. |
2. With board and lodging:
a. Per month:
Housemaids and General Female Servants, 30s. to 40s.; Cooks, 30s. to 50s.
Farm Labourers, Ploughmen, and Station Hands, 40s. to 80s.
​b. Per year:
Note.—Farm labourers are usually boarded and lodged; and single men preferred to married men with families. A high rate of wages does not necessarily imply a demand for labour. Navvies work eight hours a day, most other trades nine hours; a few, 10; farm hands, sunrise to sunset in the season. There is a good demand generally for female servants, milliners, and dressmakers. There is a good opening for market gardeners, fruit growers, and farmers, with £150 and upwards, but they should get experience of colonial farming before taking up land. In a few agricultural parts there is a fair demand for farm hands at £2 to £4 a month and board, but employment is not always permanent, and in the Kim­berley Division there is no demand. In any case they should be prepared to turn their hands to all kinds of farm and station work, or to cut down timber, or to use a pick and shovel, and to rough it in the bush and country districts. There is a. moderate demand only for mechanics, chiefly for those in the building trades. Gold­ miners may do well in mining districts, but the journeys are gene­rally expensive, and the life is rough.
# The Cambridge Carol Book/In Bethlehem hear I to-day

Note from choral edition: "Words of Δόξα ἐν ὑψίστοις Θεῷ (December 25) by St. John Damascene († c. 780), translated by G. R. W."
XVII. IN BETHLEHEM HEAR I TO-DAY
1.In Bethlehem hear I to-day The Angels chant a merry lay,
2.And 'Glory be to God on high, That willeth Peace on earth,' they cry.
3.Now doth the Mother-maid enfold Him whom high heav'n can no-way hold.
​4.'Mid darkness hath the Day-star shined, Exalting men of humble mind,
5.Who, with the Angels in the sky, Sing, 'Glory be to God on high!'
# The Cambridge Carol Book/In a cavern oxen-trod

Note from the choral edition: "Words of Σπηλαίῳ παρῴκησας (December 25) by St. Anatolius († 458), translated by G. R. W."
XVI. IN A CAVERN OXEN-TROD
1.In a cavern oxen-trod, Jesu Christ, Thou liest, In a manger, very God, Thou, the Son most highest.
2.There poor herdmen from the fold Bend the knee before Thee: There with incense, myrrh and gold, Eastern kings adore Thee.
3.Now at length is come to pass That which hath been tolden, Touching Christ and Christen-mas, By the prophets olden.
4.Now Angelick hosts aloft Cleave the sky asunder, Carolling, in loud and soft, Songs of glee and wonder.
5.'Glory be to God,' they cry, 'God, who condescendest To be born; who from on high Man alone befriendest.'
# The Cambridge Carol Book/Heap on more wood! the wind is chill

From the introduction to Canto V of Marmion by Sir Walter Scott
XIII. HEAP ON MORE WOOD! THE WIND IS CHILL
1.Heap on more wood! the wind is chill; But let it whistle as it will, We'll keep our Christmas merry still, We'll keep our Christmas merry still. Each age has deem'd the new-born year The fittest time for festal cheer; And well our Christian sires of old Lov'd when the year its course had roll'd.
2.On Christmas Eve the bells were rung; On Christmas Eve the Mass was sung; That only night in all the year Saw the stoled priest the chalice rear. The damsel donn'd her kirtle sheen; The hall was dress'd with holly green; Forth to the wood did merry men go To gather in the mistletoe.
3.Then open'd wide the baron's hall To vassal, tenant, serf and all; Power laid his rod of rule aside, And ceremony doff'd his pride, All hail'd, with uncontroll'd delight And general voice, the happy night, That to the cottage, as the crown, Brought tidings of salvation down.
​4.The fire, with well-dried logs supplied, Went roaring up the chimney wide; The huge hall-table's oaken face, Scrubb'd till it shone, the day to grace, Bore then upon its massive board No mark to part the squire and lord, Then the grim boar's head frown'd on high, Crested with bays and rosemary.
5.The wassel round, in good brown bowls, Garnish'd with ribbons, blithely trowls; There the huge sirloin reek'd; hard by Plum-porridge stood, and Christmas pie. Then came the merry masquers in, And carols roar'd with blithesome din; If unmelodious was the song, It was a hearty note and strong.
6.England was Merry England, when Old Christmas brought his sports agen: 'Twas Christmas broach'd the mightiest ale; 'Twas Christmas told the merriest tale; A Christmas gambol oft would cheer The poor man's heart through half the year. England was Merry England, when Old Christmas brought his sports agen.
# The Cambridge Carol Book/Ho! Steward, bid my servants

Note from the choral edition: "Words by J. M. Neale (1818–1866), reverently altered here and there to suit an ancient ecclesiastical pre-Reformation melody, now known as John Anderson, my jo, John."
XIV. HO! STEWARD, BID MY SERVANTS
1.'Ho! steward, bid my servants Go forth, and hither call, For guests, my friends and neighbours, To sup with me in hall; That, at this blessed season, Which comes but once a year, We may, as folk in olden days, Rejoice, and make good cheer.'
​2.'Sire, shall I bid the noble, That banquets in his state, With purple and fine linen, With gold and silver plate?' 'Nay, bid me not the noble, For he hath got enow; But bring me in the country man, That liveth by the plow.'
3.'Sire, shall I bid in Divès, For iti s very plain, If ye give him a banquet, He'll banquet you again?' 'Nay, bid not hither Divès, For it shall ne'er be thus, But go among the alley-lanes, And fetch in Lazarus.'
4.'Sire, shall I bid the merchant, That hath upon the seas His fleets of caravellas, And right great argosies?' 'Nay, bid me not the merchant, But go and fetch the clerk, That with the bandog goes to rest, And riseth with the lark.'
5.'And wherefore must I turn me From noble and from rich? And wherefore seek the poor man, That dwells in lane and ditch?' 'Man, lay to heart the reason, Because the King of all, Though rich, grew poor, for mortal sake, And born was in a stall.
​6.'For these be they, good steward, Whom God doth chiefly choose, And these, His poorer brethren, No man may dare refuse. So, in this bleak December, Then make we best good cheer, When, for the sake of Babe Jesú, The poor we welcome here.'
# The Cambridge Carol Book/I was, and am, and ay shall be sad-hearted

L. I WAS, AND AM, AND AY SHALL BE SAD-HEARTED
I was, and am, And ay shall be sad-hearted For Walsingham, To see her day departed: Her minster walls and stalls o'erthrown, Her cells and wells with moss o'ergrown: Above her own, where stood the throne Of Mary's Son, lo! now ne'er a stone.
# The Cambridge Carol Book/Hob and Colin, Yule is come

Note from the choral edition: "The words, by G. R. W., are founded on those of Guillô, pran ton tamborin, a Burgundian carol (1720)"
XV. HOB AND COLIN, YULE IS COME
1.Hob and Colin, Yule is come, Calling forth your fife and drum; If ye strike up, as ye can, Turelurelu, patapatapan, I will carol; so will Jan, With a lassie, Joan or Nan.
2.Thus men gave, in olden days, To the Prince of princes, praise: Wherefore, an ye like my plan, Turelurelu, patapatapan, Dress your drum-stick, you; and span, You, your reed, my piper Pan.
3.Christmas tolls the devil's knell; Thankèd be Emmanuel. So from England to Japan, Turelurelu, patapatapan, Whether town or country man, Sing it, ring it, ran-tan-ran.
4.God and man accordant are: Not so, fife and drum; ye jar, Yet nought would I sooner than Turelurelu, patapatapan. Fore our Lady and Saint Ann, 'Tis high time the thing began.
# The Cambridge Carol Book/From Galilee they came

IX. FROM GALILEE THEY CAME
1.From Galilee they came, Saint Joseph and his Dame: O'er hill they speed, nor dally up valley, up valley: O'er hill they speed, nor dally up valley, O la!
2.When night fell dark and chill, And wind 'gan whistle shrill, Went Joseph and his Dearie, aweary, aweary, Went Joseph and his Dearie, aweary, O la!
3.Arriv'd in Bethlehem, There was but found for them (The best that they were able) a stable, a stable, ('Twas all that they were able), a stable, O la!
# The Cambridge Carol Book/Hail! Holy Child, lain in an oxen manger

XII. HAIL! HOLY CHILD, LAIN IN AN OXEN MANGER
1.Hail! Holy Child, Lain in an oxen manger, Of Jesse stem, Yet scorn'd at Bethlehem, In winter wild, As ne'er-to-fore was stranger, Constrain'd, as I hear tell, Outside, outside a churlish inn to dwell, Outside, outside a churlish inn to dwell.
2.Methink I stand To-day in David's city, And twang the chord For David's Son and Lord: If, harp in hand, I make but tuneless ditty, Yet, Babe, Thou know'st that I Assay, assay my best—a lullaby, Assay, assay my best—a lullaby.
3.What if my flute Break time with Angel singers, Or not surpass The Alto of yon ass; What if my lute Be pluck'd with artless fingers, Or if my voice be Base, Now flat, now flat, now sharp, bereft of grace, Now flat, now flat, now sharp, bereft of grace—
4.Thou wilt accept My song, nor reprehend it: For Thee, above All earthly things, I love: ​And, tho' inept my lay, Thou wilt amend it, And where 'tis out of joint, Canst make, canst make my false true counterpoint, Canst make, canst make my false true counterpoint.
# The Cambridge Carol Book/Hail, Eternal Son, to-day

XI. HAIL! ETERNAL SON, TO-DAY
1.Hail! Eternal Son, to-day Born of Mary, Maiden ay; Straw Thy bed, Thy pillow hay. Eya, eya, eya; Domini natalia Recolat ecclesia.
2.Angel-army, sound your horn, Chanting on this holy morn, 'God in Bethlehem is born.' Eya, eya, eya; In excelsis gloria: In terris concordia.
​3.Shine in Eastern sky, thou Star, Pointing to that house afar Wherein Babe and Mother are. Eya, eya, eya; Puer idem varia Fecit luminaria.
4.Hitherward! Ye Princes three, Worship Him. Though poor He be, Lord, and King of kings is He. Eya, eya, eya; In celesti patria Vestra sors palacia,
5.Herdmen, leave your flocks, and run To adore the Holy One, God the Father's only Son. Eya, eya, eya; Qui creavit omnia, Eius haec solempnia.
6.Ass, with ox that hauleth plow, Fore thy Master, cradled now In the manger, bend and bow. Eya, eya, eya; Inter animalia Patrem parit filia.
7.Joseph, many of high degree, King and Seer, have longed to see Whom thou seest on Mary's knee. Eya, eya, eya; Deus, tuos visita, Et nobiscum habita.
8.Now, good people, all of ye, Magnify, with Maid Marie, Christ and His Nativitie. Eya, eya, eva; Sociate musicá Christi Natalitia.
# The Cambridge Carol Book/Get ivy and hull, woman, deck up

X. GET IVY AND HULL, WOMAN, DECK UP
1.Get ivy and hull, woman, deck up thine house, And take this same brawn for to seethe and to souse; Provide us good cheer, for thou know'st the old guise; Old customs, that good be, let no man despise. At Christmas be merry, and thank God of all, And feast thy poor neighbours, the great and the small: Yea, all the year long have an eye to the poor, And God shall send luck to keep open thy door.
2.Good fruit and good plenty do well in thy loft, Then lay for an orchard and cherish it oft: The profit is mickle, the pleasure is much; At pleasure with profit few wise men will grutch. At Christmas be merry, and thank God of all, And feast thy poor neighbours, the great and the small: Yea, all the year long have an eye to the poor, And God shall send luck to keep open thy door.
# The Complete Poems of Francis Ledwidge/Songs of the Fields/The Death of Ailill

THE DEATH OF AILILL
When there was heard no more the war's loud sound, And only the rough corn-crake filled the hours, And hill winds in the furze and drowsy flowers, Maeve in her chamber with her white head bowed On Ailill's heart was sobbing: "I have found The way to love you now," she said, and he Winked an old tear away and said: "The proud Unyielding heart loves never." And then she: "I love you now, tho' once when we were young ​We walked apart like two who were estranged Because I loved you not, now all is changed." And he who loved her always called her name And said: 'You do not love me, 'tis your tongue Talks in the dusk; you love the blazing gold Won in the battles, and the soldier's fame. You love the stories that are often told By poets in the hall." Then Maeve arose And sought her daughter Findebar: "O, child, Go tell your father that my love went wild With all my wars in youth, and say that now I love him stronger than I hate my foes...." And Findebar unto her father sped And touched him gently on the rugged brow, And knew by the cold touch that he was dead.
# The Complete Poems of Francis Ledwidge/Songs of the Fields/The Singer's Muse

THE SINGER'S MUSE
I brought in these to make her kitchen sweet, Haw blossoms and the roses of the lane. Her heart seemed in her eyes so wild they beat With welcome for the boughs of Spring again. She never heard of Babylon or Troy, She read no book, but once saw Dublin town; Yet she made a poet of her servant boy And from Parnassus earned the laurel crown.
If Fame, the Gorgon, turns me into stone Upon some city square, let someone place Thorn blossoms and lane roses newly blown Beside my feet, and underneath them trace: ​"His heart was like a bookful of girls' song, With little loves and mighty Care's alloy. These did he bring his muse, and suffered long, Her bashful singer and her servant boy."
# The Complete Poems of Francis Ledwidge/Songs of the Fields/The Broken Tryst

THE BROKEN TRYST
The dropping words of larks, the sweetest tongue That sings between the dusks, tell all of you; The bursting white of Peace is all along Wing-ways, and pearly droppings of the dew Emberyl the cobwebs' greyness, and the blue Of hiding violets, watching for your face, Listen for you in every dusky place.
You will not answer when I call your name, But in the fog of blossom do you hide To change my doubts into a red-faced shame By'n by when you are laughing by my side? ​Or will you never come, or have you died, And I in anguish have forgotten all? And shall the world now end and the heavens fall?
# The Complete Poems of Francis Ledwidge/Songs of the Fields/The Death of Leag, Cuchulain's Charioteer

THE DEATH OF LEAG. CUCHULAIN'S CHARIOTEER
CONALL
"I only heard the loud ebb on the sand, The high ducks talking in the chilly sky. The voices that you fancied floated by Were wind notes, or the whisper on the trees. But you are still so full of war's red din, You hear impatient hoof-beats up the land When the sea's changing, or a lisping breeze Is playing on the waters of the linn."
LEAG
"I hear Cuchulain's voice, and Emer's voice, The Lia Macha's neigh, the chariot's wheels, ​Farther away a bell bough's drowsy peals; And sleep lays heavy thumbs upon my eyes. I hear Cuchulain sing above the chime Of One Who comes to make the world rejoice, And comes again to blot away the skies, To wipe away the world and roll up Time."
CONALL
"In the dark ground forever mouth to mouth They kiss thro' all the changes of the world, The grey sea fogs above them are unfurled At evening when the sea walks with the moon, And peace is with them in the long cairn shut. You loved him as the swallow loves the South, And Love speaks with you since the evening put Mist and white dews upon short shadowed noon."
LEAG
"Sleep lays his heavy thumbs upon my eyes, Shuts out all sounds and shakes me at the wrists. By Nanny water where the salty mists Weep o'er Riángabra let me stand deep Beside my father. Sleep lays heavy thumbs Upon my eyebrows, and I hear the sighs Of far loud waters, and a troop that comes With boughs of bells——"
CONALL
"They come to you with sleep."
# The Complete Poems of Francis Ledwidge/Songs of the Fields/The Death of Sualtem

THE DEATH OF SUALTEM
After the brown bull passed from Cooley's fields And all Muirevne was a wail of pain, Sualtem came at evening thro' the slain And heard a noise like water rushing loud, A thunder like the noise of mighty shields. And in his dread he shouted: "Earth is bowed, The heavens are split and stars make war with stars And the sea runs in fear!" For all his scars He hastened to Dun Dealgan, and there found It was his son, Cuculain, making moan. ​His hair was red with blood, and he was wound In wicker full of grass, and a cold stone Was on his head. "Cuculain, is it so?" Sualtem said, and then, "My hair is snow, My strength leaks thro' my wounds, but I will die Avenging you." And then Cuculain said: "Not so, old father, but take horse and ride To Emain Macha, and tell Connor this." Sualtem from his red lips took a kiss, And turned the stone upon Cuculain's head. The Lia-Macha with a heavy sigh Ran up and halted by his wounded side. ​In Emain Macha to low lights and song Connor was dreaming of the beauteous Maeve. He saw her as at first, by Shannon's wave, Her insteps in the water, mounds of white. It was in Spring, and music loud and strong Rocked all the coloured woods, and the blue height Of heaven was round the lark, and in his heart There was a pain of love. Then with a start He wakened as a loud voice from below Shouted, "The land is robbed, the women shamed, The children stolen, and Cuculain low!" Then Connor rose, his war-worn soul inflamed, And shouted down for Cathbad; then to greet The messenger he hurried to the street. ​And there he saw Sualtem shouting still The message of Muirevne 'mid the sound Of hurried buddings and uneasy horse. At sight of him the Lia-Macha wheeled, So that Sualtem fell upon his shield, And his grey head came shouting to the ground. They buried him by moonlight on the hill, And all about him waves the heavy gorse.
# The Complete Poems of Francis Ledwidge/Songs of the Fields/The Lost Ones

THE LOST ONES
Somewhere is music from the linnets' bills, And thro' the sunny flowers the bee-wings drone, And white bells of convolvulus on hills Of quiet May make silent ringing, blown Hither and thither by the wind of showers, And somewhere all the wandering birds have flown; And the brown breath of Autumn chills the flowers.
But where are all the loves of long ago? Oh, little twilight ship blown up the tide, ​Where are the faces laughing in the glow Of morning years, the lost ones scattered wide? Give me your hand, Oh brother, let us go Crying about the dark for those who died.
# The Complete Poems of Francis Ledwidge/Songs of the Fields/The Maid in Low-Moon Land

THE MAID IN LOW-MOON LAND
I know not where she be, and yet I see her waiting white and tall. Her eyes are blue, her lips are wet, And move as tho' they'd love to call. I see her shadow on the wall Before the changing moon has set.
She stands there lovely and alone And up her porch blue creepers swing. The world she moves in is her own, To sun and shade and hasty wing. And I would wed her in the Spring, But only I sit here and moan.
# The Complete Poems of Francis Ledwidge/Songs of the Fields/The Coming Poet

THE COMING POET
"Is it far to the town?" said the poet, As he stood 'neath the groaning vane, And the warm lights shimmered silver On the skirts of the windy rain. "There are those who call me," he pleaded, "And I'm wet and travel sore." But nobody spoke from the shelter, And he turned from the bolted door.
And they wait in the town for the poet With stones at the gates, and jeers, But away on the wolds of distance In the blue of a thousand years ​He sleeps with the age that knows him, In the clay of the unborn, dead, Rest at his weary insteps, Fame at his crumbled head.
# The Complete Poems of Francis Ledwidge/Songs of the Fields/The Hills

THE HILLS
The hills are crying from the fields to me, And calling me with music from a choir Of waters in their woods where I can see The bloom unfolded on the whins like fire. And, as the evening moon climbs ever higher And blots away the shadows from the slope, They cry to me like things devoid of hope.
Pigeons are home. Day droops. The fields are cold. Now a slow wind comes labouring up the sky With a small cloud long steeped in sunset gold, Like Jason with the precious fleece anigh The harbour of Iolcos. Day's bright eye ​Is filmed with the twilight, and the rill Shines like a scimitar upon the hill.
And moonbeams drooping thro' the coloured wood Are full of little people wingéd white. I'll wander thro' the moon-pale solitude That calls across the intervening night With river voices at their utmost height, Sweet as rain-water in the blackbird's flute That strikes the world in admiration mute.
# The Complete Poems of Francis Ledwidge/Songs of the Fields/The Passing of Caoilte

THE PASSING OF CAOILTE
'Twas just before the truce sang thro' the din Caoilte, the thin man, at the war's red end Leaned from the crooked ranks and saw his friend Fall in the farther fury; so when truce Halted advancing spears the thin man came And bending by pale Oscar called his name; And then he knew of all who followed Finn, He only felt the cool of Gavra's dews.
And Caoilte, the thin man, went down the field To where slow water moved among the whins, ​And sat above a pool of twinkling fins To court old memories of the Fenian men, Of how Finn's laugh at Conan's tale of glee Brought down the rowan's boughs on Knocnaree, And how he made swift comets with his shield At moonlight in the Fomar's rivered glen.
And Caoilte, the thin man, was weary now, And nodding in short sleeps of half a dream: There came a golden barge down middle stream, And a tall maiden coloured like a bird Pulled noiseless oars, but not a word she said. And Caoilte, the thin man, raised up his head And took her kiss upon his throbbing brow, And where they went away what man has heard?
# The Blind Bow-boy

The first edition of The Blind Bow-boy consists of thirty-six hundred and fifteen copies as follows: fifteen on Borzoi all rag paper signed by the author and numbered A to O; one hundred copies on Borzoi all rag paper signed by the author and numbered 1 to 100; and thirty-five hundred copies on English featherweight paper.
    This is Number
* The Blind Bow-boy
* Carl Van Vechten
* With a decoration by Robert E. Locher
* New YorkAlfred · A · Knopf MCMXXIII
To Alfred A. Knopf My publisher and my friend
Catulle Mendès
* Chapter 1
* Chapter 2
* Chapter 3
* Chapter 4
* Chapter 5
* Chapter 6
* Chapter 7
* Chapter 8
* Chapter 9
* Chapter 10
* Chapter 11
* Chapter 12
* Chapter 13
* Chapter 14
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1964, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 59 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.
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