OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Spring

SPRING.
Now the zunny aïr’s a-blowèn Softly over flowers a-growèn; An’ the sparklèn light do quiver On the ivy-bough an’ river; Bleätèn lambs, wi’ woolly feäces, Now do plaÿ, a-runnèn reäces;  An’ the springèn  Lark’s a-zingèn, Lik’ a dot avore the cloud, High above the ashes sh’oud.
Housèn, in the open brightness, Now do sheen in spots o’ whiteness; Here an’ there, on upland ledges, In among the trees an’ hedges, Where, along by vlocks o’ sparrows, Chatt’rèn at the ploughman’s harrows,  Dousty rwoaded,  Errand-lwoaded; Jenny, though her cloak is thin, Do wish en hwome upon the pin.
Zoo come along, noo longer heedvul Ov the viër, leätely needvul, Over grass o’ slopèn leäzes, Zingèn zongs in zunny breezes; Out to work in copse, a-mootèn, Where the primrwose is a-shooèn,  An in gladness,  Free o’ sadness, In the warmth o’ Spring vorget Leafless winter’s cwold an’ wet.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Slidèn

SLIDÈN.
When wind wer keen,  Where ivy-green  Did clwosely wind  Roun’ woak-tree rind,  An’ ice shone bright, An’ meäds wer white, wi’ thin-spread snow  Then on the pond, a-spreadèn wide,  We bwoys did zweep along the slide, A-strikèn on in merry row.
There ruddy-feäced,  In busy heäste, ​ We all did wag  A spankèn lag,  To win good speed, When we, straight-knee’d, wi’ foreright tooes,  Should shoot along the slipp’ry track,  Wi’ grindèn sound, a-gettèn slack, The slower went our clumpèn shoes.
Vor zome slow chap,  Did teäke mishap,  As he did veel  His hinder heel  A-het a thump, Wi’ zome big lump, o’ voot an’ shoe.  Down vell the voremost wi’ a squall,  An’ down the next went wi’ a sprawl, An’ down went all the laughèn crew.
As to an’ fro,  In merry row,  We all went round  On ice, on ground  The maïdens nigh A-stannèn shy, did zee us slide,  An’ in their eäprons small, did vwold  Their little hands, a-got red-cwold, Or slide on ice o’ two veet wide.
By leafless copse,  An’ beäre tree-tops,  An’ zun’s low beams,  An’ ice-boun’ streams,  An’ vrost-boun’ mill, A-stannèn still. Come wind, blow on,  An’ gi’e the bwoys, this Chris’mas tide,  The glitt’rèn ice to meäke a slide, As we had our slide, years agone.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Teäkèn in Apples

TEAKEN IN APPLES.
We took the apples in last week, An’ got, by night, zome eächèn backs A-stoopèn down all day to pick So many up in mawns an’ zacks. An’ there wer Liz so proud an’ prim, An’ dumpy Nan, an’ Poll so sly; An’ dapper Tom, an’ loppèn Jim, An’ little Dick, an’ Fan, an’ I.
An’ there the lwoaded tree bent low, Behung wi’ apples green an’ red; An’ springèn grass could hardly grow, Drough windvalls down below his head. An’ when the maïdens come in roun’ The heavy boughs to vill their laps, We slily shook the apples down Lik’ haïl, an’ gi’ed their backs some raps.
​An’ zome big apple, Jimmy flung To squaïl me, gi’ed me sich a crack; But very shortly his ear rung, Wi’ woone I zent to paÿ en back. An’ after we’d a-had our squaïls, Poor Tom, a-jumpèn in a bag, Wer pinch’d by all the maïden’s naïls, An’ rolled down into hwome-groun’ quag.
An’ then they carr’d our Fan all roun’, ’Ithin a mawn, till zome girt stump Upset en over on the groun’, An’ drow’d her out along-straïght, plump. An’ in the cider-house we zot Upon the windlass Poll an’ Nan, An’ spun ’em roun’ till they wer got So giddy that they coulden stan’.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Thatchèn o' the Rick

THATCHEN O’ THE RICK.
As I wer out in meäd last week, A-thatchèn o’ my little rick, There green young ee-grass, ankle-high, Did sheen below the cloudless sky; An’ over hedge in tother groun’, Among the bennets dry an’ brown, My dun wold meäre, wi’ neck a-freed Vrom Zummer work, did snort an’ veed; An’ in the sheäde o’ leafy boughs, My vew wold ragged-cwoated cows Did rub their zides upon the raïls, Or switch em wi’ their heäiry taïls.
An’ as the mornèn zun rose high Above my mossy roof clwose by, The blue smoke curreled up between The lofty trees o’ feädèn green: A zight that’s touchèn when do show A busy wife is down below, A-workèn hard to cheer woone’s tweil Wi’ her best feäre, an’ better smile. Mid women still in wedlock’s yoke Zend up, wi’ love, their own blue smoke, An’ husbands vind their bwoards a-spread By faïthvul hands when I be dead, An’ noo good men in ouer land Think lightly o’ the weddèn band. True happiness do bide alwone Wi’ them that ha’ their own he’th-stwone To gather wi’ their childern roun’, A-smilèn at the worold’s frown.
​My bwoys, that brought me thatch an’ spars, Wer down a-taïtèn on the bars, Or zot a-cuttèn wi’ a knife, Dry eltrot-roots to meäke a fife; Or drevèn woone another round The rick upon the grassy ground. An’, as the aïer vrom the west Did fan my burnèn feäce an’ breast, An’ hoppèn birds, wi’ twitt’rèn beaks, Did show their sheenèn spots an’ streaks, Then, wi’ my heart a-vill’d wi’ love An’ thankvulness to God above, I didden think ov anything That I begrudg’d o’ lord or king; Vor I ha’ round me, vur or near, The mwost to love an’ nwone to fear, An’ zoo can walk in any pleäce, An’ look the best man in the feäce. What good do come to eächèn heads, O’ lièn down in silken beds? Or what’s a coach, if woone do pine To zee woone’s naïghbour’s twice so fine? Contentment is a constant feäst, He’s richest that do want the least
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/The Beam in Grenley Church

THE BEAM IN GRENLEY CHURCH.
In church at Grenley woone mid zee A beam vrom wall to wall; a tree That’s longer than the church is wide, An’ zoo woone end o’n’s drough outside,— Not cut off short, but bound all round Wi’ lead, to keep en seäfe an’ sound.
Back when the builders vu’st begun The church,—as still the teäle do run,— A man work’d wi’ em; no man knew Who ’twer, nor whither he did goo. He wer as harmless as a chile, An’ work’d ’ithout a frown or smile, Till any woaths or strife did rise To overcast his sparklèn eyes:
An’ then he’d call their minds vrom strife, To think upon another life. He wer so strong, that all alwone He lifted beams an’ blocks o’ stwone, That others, with the girtest païns, Could hardly wag wi’ bars an’ chaïns; An’ yet he never used to staÿ O’ Zaturdays, to teäke his paÿ.
Woone day the men wer out o’ heart, To have a beam a-cut too short; An’ in the evenèn, when they shut Off work, they left en where ’twer put; An’ while dumb night went softly by Towárds the vi’ry western sky, A-lullèn birds, an’ shuttèn up The deäisy an’ the butter cup, ​They went to lay their heavy heads An’ weary bwones upon their beds.
An’ when the dewy mornèn broke, An’ show’d the worold, fresh awoke, Their godly work ageän, they vound The beam they left upon the ground A-put in pleäce, where still do bide, An’ long enough to reach outzide. But he unknown to tother men Wer never there at work ageän: Zoo whether he mid be a man Or angel, wi’ a helpèn han’, Or whether all o’t wer a dream, They didden deäre to cut the beam.
# Poems (Sherwin)/Lines on a recent melancholy event

LINES ON A RECENT MELANCHOLY EVENT.
Poor Annie was a pretty blue-eyed, kind-hearted girl, the only hope of an aged father, and he was her only friend. They were poor, but cheerful as poverty can be: he obtained his living by daily labour, and Annie was placed to service at the house of a neighbouring farmer.
"Without education, simple and unsuspecting, she listened to the improper addresses of her master's son.
As soon as the circumstance became known to her mistress, she was discharged in disgrace; her inhuman seducer refusing any recompense, even pecuniary.
Ashamed to return to the roof of her father in her present degraded position, and with a mind clogged by ignorance and burthened by guilt, she gave way to despair, and put a period to her existence by throwing herself into a pond near to her early home.
# Poems (Sherwin)/Knowledge

KNOWLEDGE.
If you wish your children to get on in the world, give them education—give them knowledge. If you wish them to be respected, teach them to respect themselves.
# Popular Irish Stories (1850)/Ready Wit

READY WIT.
A traveller, fond of a joke—a corpulent, jolly-looking fellow—taking a walk in company with one of his customers, met a "rough, rude, ready-witted" Hibernian driving a small cart, drawn by a jackass, when the following dialogue ensued: —"Well, Pat, what kind of an animal is this you have got!" "Arrah, now, don't be after denying your friends when you meet with them. Sure you have not forgot your cousin, Mr. Jack Ass." "Oh ho! so you deal among asses." "Well, in troth I do, Sir." "And what is the price of a good one just now?" "In troth, Sir, that greatly depends on their appearance; a little jacky like this un might be got for a pound; but, by japers, a big fat cuddy like yourself would cost thurty shillans!"
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# Popular Irish Stories (1850)/Paddy and the Priest

PADDY AND THE PRIEST.
A priest in the neighbourhood of Cork, fancying that the "dues" at confession were insufficient remuneration for the pardons he granted, told his congregation that in future he would not hear confessions, unless the "compliment" was increased. This, of course, created a great sensation in his parish; some murmured, a few remonstrated, and others absented themselves from the confessional altogether. Amongst the latter was Darby Donovan. "Hilloa, Darby," said the priest, one morning, spying Darby sneaking along the side of a ditch to avoid a meeting. "Hilloa, Darby! is that you." "Oh! thin, is it yer reverrence? I hope yer reverrence, and all belonging to yer reverrence is well. It's a good step to Blarney, and my sister's child's sick in it, so as its contrary to yer reverrence I'm going, I'll wish you a plasant day." "Stay, Darby," called the priest—"What's the reason you have not been to confession lately?" "Plaze yer reverrence," said Darby, scratching his head, "I've never been able to affoord it since the grace of God riz."
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# Popular Irish Stories (1850)

NEW AND IMPROVED SERIES.
No. 23.
POPULAR
IRISH STORIES;
A COLLECTION OF
THE MOST INTERESTING TALES AND LEGENDS OF IRELAND
COMPILED FROM THE BEST AUTHORS.
GLASGOW: PRINTED FOR THE BOOKSELLERS. 1850.
Price One Penny.
CONTENTS
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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
# Popular Irish Stories (1850)/Anne Boney

ANNE BONEY, THE FEMALE PIRATE.
This woman was a native of the city of Cork. Her father was an attorney, and by his activity in business rose to a considerable respectability in that place. Anne was the fruit of an unlawful connection with his own servant-maid, with ​whom he afterwards eloped to America, leaving his wife in this country.
He settled in Carolina, and followed his own profession, but soon commenced merchant, and amassed a considerable property. There he lived with his servant in the character of a wife, but she dying, her daughter superintended the domestic affairs.
During her residence with her father, she was supposed to have a considerable fortune, and was accordingly addressed by young men of respectable situations in life. It happened, however, with her, as with many others of her sex, that her feelings and not interest determined her in the choice of a husband;—she married a young seaman without a single shilling.
The avaricious father was so enraged, that, deaf to the feelings of a parent, he turned his own child out of his house. Upon this cruel usage of her father, and the disappointment of her fortune, Anne and her husband sailed for the Island of Providence, in hopes of gaining employment.
She, however, acted a very different part from the character of a virtuous woman. She left her husband, and fixed her affections on Captain Rackham, with whom she eloped.
She had disguised herself in man's clothes, to prevent discovery; but proving with child, the captain put her on shore, and intrusted her to the care of some friends until she recovered, when she again accompanied him, disguised as formerly, in all his piratical expeditions.
Upon the king's proclamation, offering a pardon to all pirates who would surrender themselves, he amongst others surrendered himself, and went into the privateering business. He soon, however embraced an opportunity of returning to his favourite employment.
In all his favourite exploits Anne accompanied him, and displayed the greatest courage and intrepidity. When their ship was taken, Anne, another woman, and a seaman, were the last three that remained on board, Captain Rackham having previously found means to escape on shore, but he was apprehended and sent to prison.
Anne was known to many of the planters in the Island of Jamaica, to which place she was conveyed, who remembered to have seen her in her father's house, and they were disposed to intercede in her behalf. Her unprincipled conduct in leaving her own husband, and forming an illicit connection with Captain Rackham, tended to render them less active in her favour.
By a special favour, Rackham was permitted to visit her ​the day before he was executed, but instead of condoling him on account of his hard fate, as might have been expected, she only observed that she was sorry to see him there, but if he had fought like a man, he need not have been hanged like a dog.
Being with child, she remained in prison until her recovery, was reprieved, and set at liberty. She was by the interest of some friends reconciled to her father, and lived a good life ever after.
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# Popular Astronomy: A Series of Lectures Delivered at Ipswich/Title Page

See the scan index for this work.
POPULAR
ASTRONOMY:
A SERIES OF LECTURES
DELIVERED AT IPSWICH.
BY
SIR GEORGE BIDDELL AIRY, K.C.B.,
ASTRONOMER ROYAL.
TENTH EDITION.
${\mathfrak {London:}}$
MACMILLAN AND CO.
1881
[All rights reserved.]
# Popular Irish Stories (1850)/Mac Turkhill

MAC TURKHILL.
Mac Turkhill, who from his earliest days was initiated in all the vices of raparee, and the known violator of female chastity, met in his walks with Miss O'Melaghlin, whose father was the richest man in the country. Her charms immediately excited his desires; being a man of some property himself, he had recourse to her father for the honour of receiving from him the hand of his fair daughter. The answer he received was, that the happiness of a female in a married state depended on the temper, the morals, or character of the husband—that till he was convinced that the suitor's conduct would bear such a scrutiny, he would withhold his consent—and therefore concluded that if his daughter's inclinations were not pre-engaged, and his character should appear amiable, he should be no hindrance to their mutual happiness.
Mac Turkhill had no reason to thank O'Melaghlin for the prudence of his conduct—he knew that his reputation would not bear inquiry, but he determined to wait some days, in ​the interval of which he made his arrangements for carrying Miss O'Melaghlin off by force. The banditti of white-boys, with whom he was in esteem, on account of the congeniality of his morals, promised to assist him, and to run all hazards in promoting his success.
Now ripe for mischief, and provided with the means to ensure him the possession of Miss O'Melaghlin, he applies to her father for an answer.
The reception he met with was such as he expected. O'Melaghlin told him that he could not sacrifice the happi- of his daughter by consenting to an alliance which he could not approve of, and which every tie of honour and honesty forced him to decline.
Mac Turkhill heard him with a frown, and went off muttering revenge. The father being no stranger to the extravagance of the pretended suitor, had every thing to fear from him. He therefore determined to remove his daughter to a place of greater security, and placing her in his carriage, acquainted her with his motives, to which she gave a voluntary and eager consent. Mac Turkhill, who watched over his motions, overtook him near the Gautty Mountains, in the county of Tipperary. His faithful band shot the horses of the carriage, whilst Mac Turkhill pistoled O'Melaghlin, and seized on his daughter, whom he hurried to his horse, and mounted her upon it after a long struggle with her. Her cries, her shrieks, her swoons, had no effect upon the monster; but mounting, he rode off with her at full gallop.
Providentially a corps of free volunteers met him in his flight, and melted with the shrieks of beauty in distress, determined on a rescue. Companions in guilt are seldom faithful to each other——his own company fled and left him alone to engage with his enemies. Grown desperate with danger, he shot the first that approached him, but as he was drawing out the second pistol, he received a shot in his head, and dropped down dead from the saddle. Miss O'Melaghlin tumbled likewise on the ground in a swoon, but recovering, thanked her deliverers on her knees, and was escorted to her place of residence by the generous corps of free volunteers.
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# Poet Lore/Volume 27

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A MAGAZINE OF LETTERS
EDITED BY
CHARLOTTE PORTER AND HELEN A. CLARKE
VOLUME XXVII
JANUARY—DECEMBER, 1916
BOSTON THE POET LORE COMPANY 1916
New Year's number Spring number Summer number Vacation number Autumn number Winter number
INDEX TO VOLUME XXVII
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
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
# Poet Lore/Volume 27/Number 1/Songs of the Slave

Two poems from Čech’s poetry collection Songs of the Slave.
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SONGS OF THE SLAVE
By Svatopluk Cech
Translated from the Bohemian by Otto Kotouc
I
Slaves.—Good it is to rest the weary body in the light of the moon ’Neath the palms here. Feasting over, our custodian sleeps now; Sit down ’mongst us, tuneful comrade, and thy sweetly sounding strings tune; Let thy song reveal the golden thoughts spun in your dreamy brow.
A Slave Girl.—Sing of flowers and stars!
A Young Slave.—Praise sing thou to a maid’s fair form and eye.
Another.—Ring the bells of jest.
An Old Man.—Disclose the deeds of ages long gone by.
The Bard.—Other themes by far today resound through my unhappy soul, Like the roar and rumble of the storms that o'er the heavens roll. Far from these are flowery adornment, girlish grace, and heroes’ pride: Sighs, groans, gnash of teeth and clash of chains now in my themes abide.
Slaves.—Clash of chains is but a common strain to us, yet play and sing; Subdue thy voice, lest our sleeping lords and guard the whip to you bring.
III
Of a slave begot, gave Me birth likewise a slave; Childhood’s lullaby song Was but clash of chain,— Through my life extended Rusted shackles sounded Morn till nightfall along Life’s deserted main.
Scarce felt my nape at length Youthful power and strength, Yoke of steel was firmly Bound about my neck: Taught to bow my head low, Kisses did I bestow On the lash that smote me: Brow beat earth at beck.
I, a weakly slave, grew ’Mongst my brother serfs true; Chains for jewels clinked just At each sister’s side; And where’er my gaze dwelt Anger, shame, pain I felt, As with heads bowed to dust Slaves dwelt nation wide.
Ill did I bear my fate— My bond’s music grate, Chasing from my cabin All the charm of life. When with stormy feeling I sought my lyre’s healing, In my song accursed, din Of my chains was rife.
Still my eye would often beam With a flickering gleam: I would strain my ear past Woods and streams along:
I deemed that yon somewhere Triumphs ’neath the heav’ns there, Flies our hallo at last, Freedom’s sunny song.
When my head I would lift, Low again would it drift; On in shame and sorrow Years succession gave. Clings the yoke still to me And the eye waits vainly Dawn’s redemptory glow: I will die a slave.
My head e’en now bends low, White locks my temples show; Hopes no longer attain Autumn’s riper hue,— Shackled my hands I know Cursèd the yoke I’ll never o'erthrow,— In my grave shall that chain Rest beside me too.
This work is a translation and has a separate copyright status to the applicable copyright protections of the original content.
# Poet Lore/Volume 27/Number 1/Glimpse of a Childhood

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GLIMPSE OF A CHILDHOOD
By Rainer Maria Rilke
Translated from the German by Margarete Münsterberg
The darkness in the room is pregnant, seeming To fold about the boy who hides himself; And when his mother enters, as if dreaming, A glass is trembling on the quiet shelf. She feels that now her entrance is betrayed, And kisses her small boy: "Oh, you are there!". . . They glance at the piano where she played On many evenings the beloved air That strangely on the child its magic laid.
He sits quite still. With wondering eyes he sees Her hand weighed down beneath the ring and slow, As if it walked against a gale in snow, Move on the snow-white keys.
This work is a translation and has a separate copyright status to the applicable copyright protections of the original content.
# Poet Lore/Volume 25

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A Magazine of Letters
EDITED BY
CHARLOTTE PORTER AND HELEN A. CLARKE
VOLUME XXV
JANUARY—DECEMBER, 1914
BOSTON THE POET LORE COMPANY 1914
New Year's number Spring number Summer number Vacation number Autumn number Winter number
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
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
# Poet Lore/Volume 24/Number 5

* At the Chasm, a play by Jaroslav Vrchlický
* Jaroslav Vrchlicky by Charles Recht
* The Nymph, a poem by Maxim Gorky
# Poet Lore/Volume 21/Number 6/"The Princess Has Her Lovers"

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“THE PRINCESS HAS HER LOVERS”
By Sara Teasdale
The princess has her lovers,
A score of knights has she, And each can sing a madrigal, And praise her gracefully.
But Love, who is so bitter, Hath put within her heart A longing for the scornful knight Who, silent, stands apart.
And though the others praise and plead, She maketh no reply, Yet for a single word from him I ween that she would die.
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 1933, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 90 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
# Poet Lore/Volume 24/Number 5/The Nymph

THE NYMPH
By Maxim Gorki
(Translated from the Russian by J. Vital DePorte and Roy Temple House)
A nymph lived long about a stream Till once, when seines were set, She floated in a blissful dream Straight down against the net. The fishermen were dull with fear And whispered: ‘What is this?’ But one, young Marco, ventured near And met her with a kiss. Lithe as a slender willow wand, As quickly reconciled, She met his gaze with glances fond, Caressed him back, and smiled. She fondled him the livelong day, But when the night came on The winsome creature slipped away— And Marco’s joy was gone. He wandered where the river laves Its wooded bank, and cried: ‘Where is she?’ to the passing waves. ‘Who knows?’ the waves replied. ‘’Tis false!’ he raged, ‘You know full well This is her native shore.’ And plunged beneath a mocking swell To find his nymph once more. The nymph sports on, as women will, And nothing brings to mind Poor Marco lost and dead. But still He left a song behind, And you who safely live on land Where poor blind worms belong, Your deeds will move no poet’s hand, Your name inspire no song.
This work is a translation and has a separate copyright status to the applicable copyright protections of the original content.
# Poet Lore/Volume 21/Number 6

* The Clouds by Jaroslav Kvapil, translated by Charles Recht
* “The Princess Has Her Lovers” by Sara Teasdale
* Hafiz by Edna Worthley Underwood
* Isadora Duncan, Priestess by Shaemas O’Sheel
* Shakespeare’s Political Philosophy by L. W. Elder
* Horace to His Wine Jug by Thomas Ewing, Jr.
* Book notes