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

The Mountaineer’s Death.
[Robert White, Newcastle-upon-Tyne.—Here printed for the first time.]
I pray you, of your courtesy, before we farther move, Let me look back and see the place that I so dearly love; I am not old in years, yet still where'er I chanced to roam, The strongest impulse of my heart was ever linked with home. There saw I first the light of heaven—there, by a mother's knee, In time of infancy and youth, her love supported me: All that I prize on earth is now my aching sight before, And glen and brae, and moorland grey, I'll witness never more!
Beneath yon trees that o'er the cot their deepening shadows fling, My father first revealed to me the exile of our king; Upon yon seat beside the door he gave to me his sword, With charge to draw it only for our just and rightful lord. And I remember when I went, unfriended and alone, Amidst a world I never loved—ay! yonder is the stone, At which my mother, bending low, for me did heaven implore: Stone, seat and tree are dear to me—I'll see them never more!
Yon hawthorn bower beside the burn, I never shall forget; Ah! there my dear departed maid and I in rapture met: What tender aspirations we breathed for other's weal! How glow'd our hearts with sympathy which none but lovers feel! And when above our hapless prince the milk-white flag was flung, While hamlet, mountain, rock and glen with martial music rung, We parted there—from her embrace myself I wildly tore; Our hopes were vain,—I came again, but found her never more!
O! thank you for your gentleness—now stay one minute still: There is a lone and quiet spot on yonder rising hill; I mark it, and the sight revives emotions strong and deep— There, lowly laid, my parents in the dust together sleep. And must I in a land afar from home and kindred lie? Forbid it, heaven! and hear my prayer—'tis better now to die! My limbs grow faint—I fain would rest—my eyes are darkening o'er; Slow flags my breath—now, this is death,—adieu, for evermore!
# The Book of Scottish Song/The Old Maid

The Old Maid.
[This humorous ditty, to the tune of "Woo'd and married and a'," was composed about the year 1826 or 1827 by a young probationer of the Church of Scotland, a native of Ayrshire, who is now settled as minister of a parish in Aberdeenshire.]
Our Girzy was now thirty-six, Though some rather mair did her ca', And ane quite sae auld to get married, Has little or nae chance ava. And Girzy, aft thinking on this, Lang sighs frae her bosom wad draw; Oh, is it not awfu' to think I may not be married ava! ​No to be married ava, No to be married ava; Oh, is it not awfu' to think, I may not be married ava!
For ilka young lass that can brag Of her ha'eing a lover or twa, Will haud out her finger and say, That body has got nane ava. And then when they a' get married, Their husbands will let them gang braw, While they laugh at auld maids like mysell, For no getting ony ava. No to be married, &c.
Some wives that are wasters o' men, Wear dune naething less than their twa; But this I wad haud as a crime, That ought to be punished by law. For are they no muckle to blame, When thus to themsells they tak' a'? Ne'er thinking o' mony an auld maid, That's no to be married ava. No to be married, &c.
But as for the men that get wives— E'en though it were some ayont twa, I think they should aye be respeckit For helping sae mony awa'. But as for the auld bach'lor bodies, Their necks every ane I could thraw, For what is the use of their lives, Gin no to be married ava? No to be married, &c.
Oh, gin I could get but a husband, E'en though he were never sae sma', Just gi'e me a husband, I'll tak' him, Though scarce like a mannie ava. Come soutor, come tailor, come tinkler, Oh come ony ane o' ye a'! Come gi'e me a bode e'er sae little, I'll tak' it and never sae na'. No to be married, &c.
Come deaf, or come dumb, or come cripple, Wi' ae leg, or nae legs ava, Or come ye wi' ae e'e, or nae e'e, I'll tak' ye as ready's wi' twa. Come young, or come auld, or come doited, Oh come and just tak' me awa'; Far better be married to something, Than no to be married ava. No to be married. &c.
Now, lads, if there's ony amang ye, Wad like just upon me to ca', Ye'll find me no ill to be courted, For shyness I ha'e thrown't awa'. And if ye should want a bit wifie, Ye ken to what quarter to draw; And e'en should we no mak' a bargain, Ye'll at least get a kissie or twa. No to be married, &c.
# The Book of Scottish Song/The Mitherless Bairn

The Mitherless Bairn.
[William Thom of Inverury.]
When a' ither bairnies are hush'd to their hame, By aunty, or cousin, or frecky grand-dame, Wha stands last an' lanely, an' sairly forfairn
'Tis the puir dowie laddie—the mitherless bairn!
The mitherless bairnie creeps to his lane bed, Nane covers his cauld back, or haps his bare head; His wee hackit heelies are hard as the aim, An' lithless the lair o' the mitherless bairn!
Aneath his cauld brow, siccan dreams hover there, O' hands that wont kindly to kaim his dark hair! But mornin' brings clutches, a' reckless an' stern, That lo'e na the locks o' the mitherless bairn!
The sister wha sang o'er his saftly rock'd bed, Now rests in the mools whare their mammie is laid; While the father toils sair his wee bannock to earn, An' kens na the wrangs o' his mitherless bairn.
Her spirit that pass'd in yon hour of his birth, Still watches his lone lorn wand'rings on earth, Recording in heaven the blessings they earn, Wha couthilie deal wi' the mitherless bairn!
Oh! speak him na harshly—he trembles the while, He bends to your bidding, and blesses your smile;— In the dark hour o' anguish, the heartless shall learn, That God deals the blow for the mitherless bairn!
# The Book of Scottish Song/The Narrow House

The Narrow House.
[Gibson.]
The narrow house, the winding sheet, Haud a' that e'er war dear to me; My Mary, an' her baby sweet, That ere yestreen smiled on her knee.
I laid them where the weary rest, An' shortly I shall rest wi' them, The hearts are cauld that lo'ed me best, An' hame to me's a weary hame.
Her father frown'd, her mother flaet, An' mony tears she shed her lane; But parent's frown or hapless fate, She'll never thole, nor mourn again.
Whate'er the warl' like to ca't, Be't this or that, or sin or shame; The fau't was love—if love's a fau't, Let love an' me bear a' the blame.
# The Book of Scottish Song/The New Year

The New Year.
[Inscribed to Joseph Train, Esq., by the author, William Dobie.—Tune, "Guid night and joy be wi' you a'."—Here first printed.]
Come—fill brimful the inspiring bowl, We'll close this day in festive cheer; Time out of mind old Scotia's sons With mirth have hail'd the new-born year. We all have weather'd many storms, And safely now are landed here; But who can tell to us 'tis given, To meet and hail another year.
For low shall many a proud head lie, And eyes be dim now sparkling clear; And severed many a tender tie Ere time revolve the infant year. O memory! when my mind looks o'er Thy records, often fall my tears, For friends long lost, and vanish'd joys— For loves and hopes of bygone years!
But why despond? sure 'tis unwise To damp our present bliss with fear; When Heaven commands we must depart, And farewell bid life's fleeting year. And now, my friends, may fav'ring heaven My wishes for your welcome hear; And health, and wealth, and happiness Attend you still from year to year.
May peace and plenty bless your board, And marriage crown with love sincere; May joys unknown to anld langsyne, Make this a happy, happy year! Then fill the sparkling glasses full, And drink to friends both far and near;— Thus may we meet in joy to greet The glad return of many a year.
# The Book of Scottish Song/The Non-Descript

The Non-Descript.
[The following verses were addressed to Mrs. Dugald Stewart by Professor Thomas Brown, the distinguished successor of her husband in the moral philosophy chair of Edinburgh. They were entitled by their author, "The Non-Descript—To a very charming Monster."]
Thou nameless loveliness, whose mind, With every grace to soothe, to warm, Has lavish Nature bless'd,—and 'shrined The sweetness in as soft a form! ​Say on what wonder-beaming soil Her sportive malice wrought thy form,— That haughty science long might toil, Nor learn to fix thy doubtful name!
For this she cull'd, with eager care, The scatter'd glories of her plan,— All that adorns the softer fair, All that exalts the prouder man:
And gay she triumph'd,—now no more Her works shall daring systems bound; As though her skill inventive o'er, She only traced the forms she found.
In vain to seek a kindred race, Tired through her mazy realms I stray.— Where shall I rauk thy radiant place? Thou dear perplexing creature! say!
Thy smile so soft, thy heart so kind, Thy voice for pity's tones so fit, All speak thee Woman; but thy mind Lifts thee where Bards and Sages sit.
# The Book of Scottish Song/The Miller

The Miller.
[Written, with the exception of the first stanza, which belongs to an oldersong, by Sir John Clerk of Pennycuick, Bart., for nearly fifty years one of the Barons of Exchequer in Scotland. Sir John was much versed in antiquities, and otherwise accomplished. He died in 1755. John Clerk of Eldin, the author of the work on Naval Tactics, was his son, and he was consequently grandfather of the late eccentric Lord Eldin. The song first appeared in "The Charmer," Edinburgh, 1751, Vol. II., but without the last verse, which was afterwards added by the author.]
Merry may the maid be That marries the miller, For foul day and fair day He's aye bringing till her; Has aye a penny in his purse For dinner and for supper; And gin she please, a good fat cheese, And lumps of yellow butter.
When Jamie first did woo me, I spier'd what was his calling; Fair maid, says he, come and see, Ye're welcome to my dwelling: Though I was shy, yet I cou'd spy The truth of what he told me, And that his house was warm and couth, And room in it to hold me.
Behind the door a bag of meal, And in the kist was plenty Of good hard cakes his mither bakes, And bannocks were na scanty; A good fat sow, a sleeky cow Was standin' in the byre; Whilst lazy pouss with mealy mou's Was playing at the fire.
Good signs are these, my mither says, And bids me tak' the miller; For foul day and fair day He's aye bringing till her; For meal and malt she does na want, Nor ony thing that's dainty; And now and then a keckling hen To lay her eggs in plenty.
In winter when the wind and rain Blaws o'er the house and byre, He sits beside a clean hearth stane Before a rousing fire, With nut-brown ale he tells his tale, Which rows him o'er fu' nappy: Who'd be a king—a petty thing, When a miller lives so happy?
# The Book of Scottish Song/The Minstrel Sleeps

* related authors: Walter Scott.
* sister projects: Wikidata item.
The Minstrel Sleeps.
[Written on the death of Sir Walter Scott, by Robert Gilfillan. Set to Music by Finlay Dun.]
The Minstrel sleeps! the charm is o'er, The bowl beside the fount is broken, And we shall hear that harp no more Whose tones to every land hath spoken! ​The Minstrel sleeps! and common clay Claims what is only common now, His eye hath lost its kindling ray, And darkness sits upon his brow!
The Minstrel sleeps!—the spell is past, His spirit its last flight hath taken; The magic wand is broke at last Whose touch all things to life could waken!
The Minstrel sleeps!—the glory's fled, The soul's returned back to the giver, And all that e'er could die is dead Of him whose name shall live for ever!
The minstrel sleeps!—and genius mourns In tears of woe, and sighs of sorrow; For though each day his song returns, The Minstrel's voice, it knows no morrow!
The Minstrel sleeps!—and death, oh! thou Hast laid the mighty with the slain— The mantle fallen is folded now, And who may it unfold again?
# The Book of the Homeless/The Dance

THE DANCE
A SONG
As the Wind and as the Wind In a corner of the way, Goes stepping, stands twirling, Invisibly, comes whirling, Bows before and skips behind In a grave, an endless play—
So my Heart and so my Heart Following where your feet have gone, Stirs dust of old dreams there; He turns a toe; he gleams there, Treading you a dance apart. But you see not. You pass on.
Rupert Brooke
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 Book of the Homeless/The New Spring

THE NEW SPRING
[ TRANSLATION ]
"Is the old spring-time dead, And shall we never see New leaves upon the tree?
"Shall the black wings of war Blot out sun, moon and star, And never a bud unfold To the bee its secret gold?
"Where are the wind-flowers streaked, And the wayward bramble shoots. And the black-birds yellow-beaked With a note like woodland flutes?"
No flower shall bloom this year But the wild flame of fear Wreathing the evil night With burst of deadly light. ​No splendour of petals red But that which the cannon shed, Raining their death-bloom down On farm and tower and town.
This is the scarlet doom By the wild sea-winds hurled Over a land of gloom, Over a grave-strewn world.
# The Book of the Homeless/The Precious Blood

THE PRECIOUS BLOOD
[ TRANSLATION ]
Oh, what if Thou, that for a cup of water promisest The illimitable sea, Thou, Lord, dost also thirst? Hast Thou not said, our blood shall quench Thee best And first Of any drink there be?
If then there be such virtue in it, Lord, Ah, let us prove it now! And, save by seeing it at Thy footstool poured, How, Lord—oh, how?
If it indeed be precious and like gold, As Thou hast taught, Why hoard it? There's no wealth in gems unsold, Nor joy in gems unbought.
Our sins are great, we know it; and we know We must redeem our guilt; Even so.
​But tears are difficult for a man to shed, And here is our blood poured out for France instead, To do with as Thou wilt!
Take it, O Lord! And make it Thine indeed, Void of all lien and fee. Nought else we ask of Thee; But if Thou needst our Love as we Thy Justice need, Great must Thine hunger be!
Paul Claudel
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 1955, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 68 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 Book of the Homeless/The Right to Liberty

THE RIGHT TO LIBERTY
[TRANSLATION]
For the past year the horror of war, and the struggle of our minds to comprehend its inevitable necessity!—Holy Writ says:"For all they that take the sword shall perish with the sword," and now in our day a poor woman of the people ends her letter with these words: "There must be war, that war may perish"—and this poor woman of the people has two sons at the front.
Infinite is the suffering, and over the earth wailing and despair!
Through all this sorrow in the world, through all these young lives cut short, may victory bring to every land the crown of life—the right to Liberty.
Eleonora Duse
Il Cerro, Boscolungo Pistoiese
# The Book of the Homeless/The Orphans of Flanders

THE ORPHANS OF FLANDERS
Where is the land that fathered, nourished, poured The sap of a strong race into your veins,— Land of wide tilth, of farms and granaries stored, And old towers chiming over peaceful plains?
It is become a vision, barred away Like light in cloud, a memory, a belief. On those lost plains the Glory of yesterday Builds her dark towers for the bells of Grief.
It is become a splendour-circled name For all the world. A torch against the skies Burns from that blood-spot, the unpardoned shame Of them that conquered: but your homeless eyes
See rather some brown pond by a white wall, Red cattle crowding in the rutty lane, Some garden where the hollyhocks were tall In the Augusts that shall never be again.
There your thoughts cling as the long-thrusting root Clings in the ground; your orphaned hearts are there. O mates of sunburnt earth, your love is mute But strong like thirst and deeper than despair.
You have endured what pity can but grope To feel; into that darkness enters none. We have but hands to help: yours is the hope Whose silent courage rises with the sun.
Laurence Binyon
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 1943, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 80 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 Book of the Homeless/The Exile

THE EXILE
[ TRANSLATION ]
Bitter our fate, that may not bear away
On the harsh winds and through the alien spray
Sheaves of our fields and fruit from the warm wall,
The rose that reddens at the morning's call,
Nor aught of all wherewith the turning year
Our doorway garlanded, from green to sere.… But since the ash is cold upon the hearth.
And dumb the birds in garden and in garth.
Since none shall come again, of all our loves,
Back to this roof that crooned with nesting doves.
Now let us bid farewell to all our dead.
And that dear corner of earth where they are laid.
And where in turn it had been good to lay
Our kindred heads on the appointed day.
Weep not, O springs and fountains, that we go.
And thou, dear earth, the earth our footsteps know,
Weep not, thou desecrated, shamed and rent.
Consumed with fire and with blood-shed spent.
Small strength have they that hunt us from thy fold
To loosen love's indissoluble hold,
And brighter than the flames about thy pyre
Our exiled faith shall spring for thee, and higher.
We shall return. Let Time reverse the glass.
Homeless and scattered from thy face we pass.
Through rain and tempest flying from our doors.
On seas unfriendly swept to stranger shores.
But, O you friends unknown that wait us there.
We ask no pity, though your bread we share,
For he who, flying from the fate of slaves
With brow indignant and with empty hand,
Has left his house, his country and his graves,
Comes like a Pilgrim from a Holy Land.
Receive him thus, if in his blood there be
One drop of Belgium's immortality.
de l' Académie Française
# The Book of the Homeless/The Little Children

THE LITTLE CHILDREN
"Suffer little children to come unto me,"
Christ said, and answering with infernal glee,
"Take them! "the arch-fiend scoffed, and from the tottering walls
Of their wrecked homes, and from the cattle's stalls.
And the dogs' kennels, and the cold
Of the waste fields, and from the hapless hold
Of their dead mothers' arms, famished and bare.
And maimed by shot and shell,
The master-spirit of hell
Caught them up, and through the shuddering air
Of the hope-forsaken world
The little ones he hurled.
Mocking that Pity in his pitiless might— The Anti-Christ of Schrecklickeit.
W. D. Howells
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 Book of the Homeless/The Children and the Flag

THE CHILDREN AND THE FLAG
The little children in my country kiss the American flag.
MADAME VANDERVELDE
What of those children over the sea
That are beating about the world's rough ways,
Like the tender blossoms from off a tree
That a sudden gale in Spring betrays?
The children? Oh, let them look for the sign
Of a wave-borne flag, thou land of mine!
On the old gray sea its course it holds,
Life for the famished is in its gift.… And the children are crowding to kiss its folds,
While the tears of their mothers fall free and swift.—
And what of the flag their lips have pressed?
Oh, guard it for ever—That flag is blest.
Edith M. Thomas
# The Book of the Homeless/The Sans-Foyer

II
THE SANS-FOYER
Love, that Love cannot share,—
Now turn to air!
And fade to ashes, O my daily bread,
Save only if you may
Bless you, to be the stay
Of the uncomforted.
Behold, you far-off lights,—
From smoke-veiled heights,
If there be dwelling in our wilderness!
For Love the refugee,
No stronghold can there be,—
No shelter more, while these go shelterless.
Love hath no home, beside
His own two arms spread wide;—
The only home, among all walls that are:
So there may come to cling,
Some yet forlorner thing
Feeling its way, along this blackened star.
Josephine Preston Peabody
# The Book of the Saints of the Ethiopian church

THE
BOOK OF THE SAINTS
OF THE ETHIOPIAN CHURCH
A translation of the Ethiopic Synaxarium
made from the manuscripts Oriental in the British Museum
by
SIR E.A. WALLIS BUDGE
Volumes I - IV
Contents.
# The Book of the Homeless/Two Women

AUGUSTE RODIN
TWO WOMEN
FROM AN ORIGINAL WATER-COLOUR SKETCH
# The Book of the Homeless/Une Promesse

UNE PROMESSE
SÉCHEZ VOS larmes, Enfants des Flandres!
Car les canons, les mitrailleuses, les fusils, les sabres et les bras n'arrêteront leur élan que lorsque l'ennemi vaincu vous rendra vos foyers!
Et ces foyers; nous, les femmes de France, d'Angleterre, de Russie et d'Italie, nous les ensoleillerons.
Sarah Bernhardt
1915
# The Book of the Homeless/The Troubler of Telaro

THE TROUBLER OF TELARO
1
Warm vines bloom now along thy rampart steeps
Thy shelves of olives, undercliffs of azure.
And like a lizard of the red rock sleeps
The wrinkled Tuscan sea, panting for pleasure.
Nets, too, festooned about thine elfin port,
Telaro, in the Etrurian mountain's side,
Heavings of golden luggers scarce distort
The image of thy belfry where they ride.
But thee, Telaro, on a night long gone
That grey and holy tower upon the mole
Suddenly summoned, while yet lightnings shone
And hard gale lingered, with a ceaseless toll
That choked, with its disastrous monotone,
All the narrow channels of the hamlet's soul.
2
For what despair, fire, shipwreck, treachery?
Was it for threat that from the macchia sprang
For Genoa's feud, the oppressor's piracy.
Or the Falcon of Sarzana that it rang?
Was the boat-guild's silver plundered? Blood should pay.
Hardwon the footing of the fishers' clan
The sea-cloud-watchers.—Loud above the spray
The maddening iron cry, the appeal of man.
Washed through the torchless midnight on and on.
Are not enough the jeopardies of day?
Riot arose—fear's Self began the fray:
But the tower proved empty. By the lightning's ray
They found no human ringer in the room. . . . The bell-rope quivered out in the sea-spume. . . .
3
A creature fierce, soft, witless of itself,
A morbid mouth, circled by writhing arms.
By its own grasp entangled on that shelf.
Had dragged the rope and spread the death-alarms;
Insensitive, light-forgotten, up from slime,
From shelter betwixt rocks, issuing for prey
Disguised, had used man's language of dismay.
The spawn of perished times had late in time
Emerged, and griefs upon man's grief imposed
Incalculable.
But the fishers closed The blind mouth, and cut off the suckers cold.
Two thousand fathoms the disturber rolled
From trough to trough into the gulf Tyrrhene;
And fear sank with it back into its night obscene.
Herbert Trench