OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Philosophical Essays Concerning Human Understanding

This transcription is of the first edition, published in 1748. Hume originally intended the work to replace volume I. of his three volume Treatise on Human Understanding (1739-40), which had attracted little attention. He attributed this lack of response to the manner of the work's delivery rather than its subject matter. The title was changed to the now-familiar Enquiry concerning Human Understanding in a 1757 edition. [Based on A Bibliography of David Hume and of Scottish Philosophy from Francis Hutcheson to Lord Balfour (1966), by Thomas Edmund Jessop, pp.12-13, 19-20.]
PHILOSOPHICAL
ESSAYS
CONCERNING
Human Understanding.
By the Author of the
Essays Moral and Political.
LONDON:
Printed for A. Millar, opposite Katharine-Street, in the Strand. MDCCXLVIII.
CONTENTS.
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
# Out-door Games: Cricket and Golf

* related authors: Arthur Rackham.
* sister projects: Wikipedia article, Commons category, quotes, news, textbook, travel guide, Wikidata item.
| Haddon | The | Hall |
| Haddon | Library | Hall |
edited
by
The Marquess of Granby
and Mr.
George A. B. Dewar
All rights reserved
Alexander McKellow
OUT-DOOR GAMES
CRICKET & GOLF
BY
THE HON. R. H. LYTTELTON
LONDON
J. M. DENT & CO. ALDINE HOUSE
29 & 30 BEDFORD STREET, W.C.
1901
Printed by Ballantyne, Hanson & Co.
At the Ballantyne Press
CONTENTS
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
From the Collection of Portraits and Caricatures Drawn and Engraved by John Kay, Edinburgh, from 1784 to 1813.
Taken by the kind permission of the Blackheath Golf Club from the Picture in the Club House.
Taken by the kind permission of the Blackheath Golf Club from the Picture in the Club House.
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 1939, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 84 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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# Our second line of defences

Serial article published in Once a Week. Illustrated by the author.
* Part 1
* Part 2
# Our wrath remains

(source)
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Our wrath remains
To all who read these presents, Greetings:
When you see the headlines, the commentaries, the talk shows, the social media bloviating, and hear the wonks and pundits of all shapes and sizes wringing their hands and gnashing their teeth over the proposed personnel and budgetary cuts to the United States military
Be you Friend or Foe…
If you think America is weaker
Then ask an Air Force B2 Pilot
If you think America can’t get there
Then ask a Navy Aircraft Carrier Commander
If you think America won’t have enough people to get the job done
Then ask a Marine
If you think America has lost its ability to fight anywhere, anytime against any enemy in 24 hours or less
Then ask a Ranger
If you think the tip of the American spear has been blunted and you believe there is truth to the end of American Military dominance
We can assure you, though we are few,
We are the perennial Tom Joad and our wrath remains.
Both living and dead
Soldier or Sailor
Airman or Marine
Uniformed or Civilian
General or Private
Just look and you’ll see
We’ll be there.
Lt. Col. David S. Eaton, U.S. Army
Department of Joint, Interagency and Multinational Operations
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it is a work of the United States federal government (see 17 U.S.C. 105).
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# Ourselves

* Search for titles containing or beginning with: "Ourselves."
* sister projects: Wikipedia article, Wikidata item.
This is a disambiguation page. It lists works that share the same title. If an article link referred you here, please consider editing it to point directly to the intended page.
* "Ourselves" in Once a Week, Series 3, 7
* "Ourselves" by Leland S. Copeland in Amazing Stories, 02 (11) (February 1928)
* "Ourselves" in The Moving Picture World, 1 (2)
# Ourselves Alone

* Search for titles containing or beginning with: "Ourselves Alone."
* sister projects: Wikipedia article, Wikidata item.
This is a disambiguation page. It lists works that share the same title. If an article link referred you here, please consider editing it to point directly to the intended page.
* "Ourselves Alone", a poem by Dora Sigerson Shorter
* "Ourselves Alone", a poem by Slievegullion
# Our own possessions—though our own—

Our own possessions — though our own — 'Tis well to hoard anew — Remembering the Dimensions Of Possibility.
# Our share of night to bear—

* "Our share of night to bear" in Poems (1890)
* "Our share of night to bear" in The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson (1924)
# Ourselves we do inter with sweet derision

Ourselves we do inter with sweet derision. The channel of the dust who once achieves Invalidates the balm of that religion That doubts as fervently as it believes.
# Poems (Chesterton, 1915)/Translation from du Bellay

TRANSLATION FROM DU BELLAY
HAPPY, who like Ulysses or that lord Who raped the fleece, returning full sage, With usage and the world's wide reason stored, With his own kin can wait the end of age. When shall I see, when shall I see, God knows! My little village smoke; or pass the door, The old dear door of that unhappy house That is to me a kingdom and much more? Mightier to me the house my fathers made Than your audacious heads, O Halls of Rome! More than immortal marbles undecayed, The thin sad slates that cover up my home; More than your Tiber is my Loire to me, Than Palatine my little Lyré there; And more than all the winds of all the sea The quiet kindness of the Angevin air.
# Poems (Chesterton, 1915)/To Hilaire Belloc

* related authors: Hilaire Belloc.
* sister projects: Wikidata item.
TO HILAIRE BELLOC
THE DEDICATION OF THE NAPOLEON OF NOTTING HILL
FOR every tiny town or place God made the stars especially; Babies look up with owlish face And see them tangled in a tree: You saw a moon from Sussex Downs, A Sussex moon, untravelled still, I saw a moon that was the town's, The largest lamp on Campden Hill.
Yea, Heaven is everywhere at home The big blue cap that always fits, And so it is (be calm; they come To goal at last, my wandering wits), So is it with the heroic thing; This shall not end for the world's end And though the sullen engines swing, Be you not much afraid, my friend.
This did not end by Nelson's urn Where an immortal England sits— Nor where your tall young men in turn Drank death like wine at Austerlitz. ​And when the pedants bade us mark What cold mechanic happenings Must come; our souls said in the dark, "Belike; but there are likelier things."
Likelier across these flats afar, These sulky levels smooth and free, The drums shall crash a waltz of war And Death shall dance with Liberty; Likelier the barricades shall blare Slaughter below and smoke above, And death and hate and hell declare That men have found a thing to love.
Far from your sunny uplands set I saw the dream; the streets I trod The lit straight streets shot out and met The starry streets that point to God; This legend of an epic hour A child I dreamed, and dream it still, Under the great grey water-tower That strikes the stars on Campden Hill.
# Poems (Chesterton, 1915)/When I Came Back to Fleet Street

WHEN I CAME BACK TO FLEET STREET
WHEN I came back: to Fleet Street, Through a sunset nook at night, And saw the old Green Dragon With the windows all alight, And hailed the old Green Dragon And the Cock I used to know, Where all good fellows were my friends A little while ago;
I had been long in meadows, And the trees took hold of me, And the still towns in the beech-woods, Where men were meant to be. But old things held; the laughter, The long unnatural night, And all the truth they talk in hell, And all the lies they write.
For I came back: to Fleet Street, And not in peace I came; A cloven pride was in my heart, And half my love was shame. ​I came to fight in fairy-tale, Whose end shall no man know— To fight the old Green Dragon Until the Cock shall crow!
Under the broad bright windows Of men I serve no more, The groaning of the old great wheels Thickened to a throttled roar; All buried things broke upward; And peered from its retreat, Ugly and silent, like an elf, The secret of the street.
They did not break the padlocks, Or clear the wall away. The men in debt that drank of old Still drink in debt to-day; Chained to the rich by ruin, Cheerful in chains, as then When old unbroken Pickwick walked Among the broken men.
Still he that dreams and rambles Through his own elfin air, Knows that the street's a prison, Knows that the gates are there: ​Still he that scorns or struggles Sees, frightful and afar, All that they leave of rebels Rot high on Temple Bar.
All that I loved and hated, All that I shunned and knew, Clears in broad battle lightning, Where they, and I, and you, Run high the barricade that breaks The barriers of the street, And shout to them that shrink within, The Prisoners of the Fleet.
# Poems (Chesterton, 1915)/To M. E. W.

TO M. E. W.
WORDS, for alas my trade is words, a barren burst of rhyme, Rubbed by a hundred rhymesters, battered a thousand times, Take them, you, that smile on strings, those nobler sounds than mine, The words that never lie, or brag, or flatter, or malign.
I give a hand to my lady, another to my friend, To whom you too have given a hand; and so before the end We four may pray, for all the years, whatever suns be set, The sale two prayers worth praying—to live and not forget.
The pale leaf falls in pallor, but the green leaf turns to gold; We that have found it good to be young shall find it good to be old; Life that bringeth the marriage bell, the cradle and the grave, Life that is mean to the mean of heart, and only brave to the brave.
​In the calm of the last white winter, when all the past is ours, Old tears are frozen as jewels, old storms frosted as flowers. Dear Lady, may we meet again, stand up again, we four, Beneath the burden of the years, and praise the earth once more.
# Poems (Clara Augusta)

POEMS
BY
CLARA AUGUSTA.
PHILADELPHIA:
J. J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO.
1873
Lippincott's Press,
Philadelphia.
CONTENTS
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
# Poems (Clark)

POEMS
ANNIE M. L. CLARK
POEMS
BY
ANNIE M. L. CLARK
Author of The Alcotts in Harvard; Olive Loring's Mission, Etc., Etc.
BOSTON
RICHARD G. BADGER
The Gorham Press
1905
Copyright 1904 by Annie M. L. Clark
All Rights Reserved
Printed at
THE GORHAM PRESS
Boston, U. S. A.
CONTENTS
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
# Patriotic pieces from the Great War/My Son

MY SON
God gave my son in trust to me; Christ died for him, and he should be A man for Christ. He is his own, And God's and man's; not mine alone. He was not mine to "give." He gave Himself that he might help to save All that a Christian should revere, All that enlightened men hold dear.
"To feed the guns!" O torpid soul! Awake, and see life as a whole. When freedom, honor, justice, right, Were threatened by the despot's might, With heart aflame and soul alight, He bravely went for God to fight Against base savages, whose pride The laws of God and man defiled; Who slew the mother and her child, Who maidens pure and sweet defiled. He did not go "to feed the guns," He went to save from ruthless Huns His home and country, and to be A guardian of democracy.
"What if he does not come?" you say; Ah, well! My sky would be more gray, But through the clouds the sun would shine, ​And vital memories be mine. God's test of manhood is, I know, Not "Will he come?" but "Did he go?" My son well knew that he might die, And yet he went, with purpose high, To fight for peace, and overthrow The plans of Christ's relentless foe.
He dreaded not the battle-field; He went to make fierce vandals yield. If he comes not again to me I shall be sad; but not that he Went like a man—a hero true— His part unselfishly to do. My heart will feel exultant pride That for humanity he died.
"Forgotten grave!" This selfish plea Awakes no deep response in me, For, though his grave I may not see, My boy will ne'er forgotten be. My real son can never die; 'Tis but his body that may lie In foreign land, and I shall keep Remembrance fond, forever, deep Within my heart of my true son Because of triumphs that he won. It matters not where any one May lie and sleep when work is done.
​It matters not where some may live; If my dear son his life must give, Hosannas I will sing for him, E'en though my eyes with tears be dim. And when the war is over, when His gallant comrades come again, I'll cheer them as they're marching by, Rejoicing that they did not die. And when his vacant place I see My heart will bound with joy that he Was mine so long—my fair young son— And cheer for him whose work is done.
—Dr. James D. Hughes
# Patriotic pieces from the Great War/Only a Volunteer

ONLY A VOLUNTEER
Permission of the author and the Independent, Kansas City
Why didn't I wait to be drafted And led to the train with a band, And put in a claim for exemption, Oh, why didn't I hold up my hand? Why didn't I wait for a banquet, Why didn't I wait for a cheer; Why didn't I wait to be drafted Instead of a volunteer?
And nobody gave me a banquet, Nobody said a kind word; The puff of the engine, The grind of the wheels, Was the only good-by I heard, Then off to the camp I hustled To be trained for the next half year, And in the shuffle forgotten; I was only a volunteer.
Perhaps some day in the future, When my little boy sits on my knee And asks what I did in the Great War, And his little eyes look up at me, I will have to look back into those eyes That at me so trustingly peer And tell him I wasn't drafted, I was only a volunteer.
—Corporal Richard D. Irwin
# Patriotic pieces from the Great War/Our Youth

OUR YOUTH
Permission of the author
Once more, once more into the fire they go, With their dreamed and their undreamed deeds of the coming years Put to the chance of a shell or a bayonet's blow— With a smile in their eyes made bright by a touch of tears, And a laugh on their lips they have gone to meet our foe!
Once more the flag that they love floats proudly on ahead Which never on land or sea has known defeat And the voices that rise from the unforgotten dead Sing the great song that lifts at the marching feet, That it ever has flung its folds where Freedom led!
To-day they fight for a freedom newly born, For the earth is weary of kings and the spawn of kings, And out of the throes of a world with anguish torn ​Shall rise a peace no glory of conquest brings, Like the peace that came to the earth on Christmas morn.
For this they fight and not for an inch of land Or the dollars wrung from a foe by the cards of state! Thank God he has placed at our helm a steadfast hand And an eye that can look unmoved on the face of Fate And a will that can dare and a heart that can understand!
He has sent our best to the world's last great crusade, They shall not come back till the world at last is free! For the Old World calls to the New, and, unafraid, Our youth go forth to their fame and their agony, For God will judge in the end, and His price be paid!
—Arthur Hobson Quinn
# Patriotic pieces from the Great War/Next Year

NEXT YEAR
Permission of Everybody's Magazine, New York
Up and down the street I know, Now that there is Grief and War All day long the people go As they went before;
But when now the lads go by— Careless look and careless glance— My heart wonders—"Which shall be Still next year in France?"
When the girls go fluttering— Flushing cheek and tossing head— My heart says "Next year shall bring Which a lover dead?"
Lord, let Peace be kind and fleet— Put an end to Grief and War; Let them walk the little street Careless as before!
—Margaret Widdemer
# Patriotic pieces from the Great War/No Man's Land

NO MAN'S LAND
No Man's Land is an eerie sight At early dawn in the pale gray light. Never a house and never a hedge In No Man's Land from edge to edge, And never a living soul walks there To taste the fresh of the morning air. Only some lumps of rotting clay, That were friends or foemen yesterday.
What are the bounds of No Man's Land? You can see them clearly on either hand, A mound of rag-bags gray in the sun, Or a furrow of brown where the earthworks run From the eastern hills to the western sea, Through field or forest o'er river and lea; No man may pass them, but aim you well And Death rides across on the bullet or shell.
But No Man's Land is a goblin sight When patrols crawl over at dead o' night; Boche or British, Belgian or French, You dice with death when you cross the trench. When the "rapid," like fireflies in the dark, Flits down the parapet spark by spark, And you drop for cover to keep your head With your face on the breast of the four months' dead.
​The man who ranges in No Man's Land Is dogged by the shadows on either hand When the star-shell's flare, as it bursts o'erhead, Scares the great gray rats that feed on the dead, And the bursting bomb or the bayonet-snatch May answer the click of your safety-catch. For the lone patrol, with his life in his hand, Is hunting for blood in No Man's Land.
—J. Knight-Adkin
# Patriotic pieces from the Great War/On to Victory!

ON TO VICTORY!
Our business is to exert the largest possible fraction of our strength at the earliest possible moment, and then to exert our constantly growing strength so fast as with the utmost energy and efficiency we can develop it, until we win the peace of overwhelming victory. This war, so far as we are concerned, was brought on by German militarism and American pacifism working together. To let either or both of them dictate the peace that is to end it would be an immeasurable disaster. We should not have any negotiations with those who committed and who glory in the Lusitania infamy, the rape of Belgium, and the hideous devastation and wholesale murders and slavery in the conquered countries. We are fighting for the fundamental sanctities of life and decencies of civilization. We are fighting for the liberty of every well behaved nation, great or small, to have whatever government it desires and to live unharming others and unharmed by others. We are sending our troops to fight abroad so that they may not have to fight at home. Germany must be beaten, and the Prussianized militaristic autocracy of the Hohenzollerns humbled or the world will not be safe for liberty-loving peoples. We must fight this war ​through to victory no matter what the cost in time or money or in the blood of our bravest and dearest.
The ultimate task of our young men of today is so to lead the generation now coming on the stage that this nation shall assure its international safety by grasping and acting on the fundamentals of duty. I sincerely believe that on the whole we of this nation have a little finer material on which to work than is true of any other nation; that in our land there are better ideals than elsewhere of the duty of men and women to one another, to their neighbors, to their country, and to the world at large. I do not see how any man can go through the camps where our army is now being trained without feeling a thrill of pride in the manliness, energy and resourcefulness of the men who are there slowly acquiring not only the bodies of soldiers but the feelings of patriots. Those camps are to-day the great universities of American citizenship, and we ought to make them permanent features of our national life. There could be no finer material for citizenship than that afforded by the men and women of this nation.
We can be sure that our armies at the front and that our fleets and squadrons will do well and bravely, and that we shall hold our heads ​high because of their valor. Theirs is the great task, theirs will be the great glory. Let us who stay behind back them in every way!
—Theodore Roosevelt
# Patriotic pieces from the Great War/On Active Service

ON ACTIVE SERVICE
For the bloke on Active Service, w'en 'e goes across the sea, 'E's sure to stand in terror of the things 'e doesn't see, A 'and grenade or mortar as it leaves the other side You can see an' 'ear it comin', so you simply steps aside. The aeroplane above you may go droppin' bombs a bit, But lyin' in your dug-out you're unlucky if you're 'it. We'n the breezes fills your trenches with hasfixiatin' gas, You puts on your respirator an' allows the stuff to pass. W'n you're up against a feller with a bayonet long an' keen, Just 'ave purchase of your weapon an' you'll drill the beggar clean. W'n man and 'oss is chargin' you, upon your knees you kneel, An' catch the 'oss's breastbone with an inch or two of steel. It's sure to end its canter, an' as the creature stops ​The rider pitches forward, an' you catch 'im as 'e drops. It's w'en 'e sees 'is danger, an' 'e knows 'is way about That a bloke is blamed lucky if 'e's knocked completely out. But out on Active Service there are dangers everywhere, The shrapnel shell and bullet that comes on you unaware, The saucy little rifle is a perky little maid, An' w'en you've got 'er message you 'ave done your last parade. The four-point-five will seek you from some distant leafy wood, An' taps you on the napper an' you're out of step for good. From the gun within the spinney to a sniper up a tree There are terrors waitin' Tommy in the things 'e doesn't see.
—Patrick MacGill
# Patriotic pieces from the Great War/Our Gift

OUR GIFT
Permission of the author
Behold Thy sons, O Lord! We give them back to Thee, With outstretched arms and bleeding hearts, On bended knee. Wrought in Thy image, nurtured in Thy truth, The brave, the strong, all-glorious in youth; Guard this our priceless gift, in strife and stress, O Lord of Righteousness!
Our noblest sons, O Lord! We give them back to Thee. Use them to glorify Thy name, A ransom for the free. Yet as we give Thee back Thine own to-day, On bended knee with fervent hearts we pray, Guard Thou our valiant sons on land and sea, O Lord of Liberty!
—Caroline Ticknor
# Patriotic pieces from the Great War/Off Duty

OFF DUTY
The night is full of magic, and the moonlit dewdrops glisten Where the blossoms close in slumber and the questing bullets pass— Where the bullets hit the level I can hear them as I listen, Like a little cricket concert, chirping chorus in the grass.
In the dug-out by the traverse there's a candle-flame a-winking And the fireflies on the sandbags have their torches all aflame. As I watch them in the moonlight, sure, I cannot keep from thinking, That the world I knew and this one carry on the very same.
Look! A gun flash to the eastward! "Cover, matey! Under cover! Don't you know the flash of danger? You should know that signal well; You can hear it as it's coming. There it passes; swooping over. There's a threat of desolation in the passing of a shell."
​Little spears of grass are waving, decked with jewels iridescent— Hark! A man on watch is stricken—I can hear his dying moan— Lies a road across the starland near the wan and waning crescent, Where a sentinel off-duty goes to reach his Maker's Throne.
—Patrick MacGill