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

HERRENSTON.
Zoo then the leädy an’ the squier,  At Chris’mas, gather’d girt an’ small, Vor me’th, avore their roarèn vier,  An’ roun’ their bwoard, ’ithin the hall; An’ there, in glitt’rèn rows, between The roun’-rimm’d pleätes, our knives did sheen,  Wi’ frothy eäle, an’ cup an’ can,  Vor maïd an’ man, at Herrenston.
An’ there the jeints o’ beef did stand,  Lik’ cliffs o’ rock, in goodly row; Where woone mid quarry till his hand  Did tire, an’ meäke but little show; An’ after we’d a-took our seat, An’ greäce had been a-zaid vor meat,  We zet to work, an’ zoo begun  Our feäst an’ fun at Herrenston.
An’ mothers there, bezide the bwoards,  Wi’ little childern in their laps, Did stoop, wi’ lovèn looks an’ words,  An’ veed em up wi’ bits an’ draps; ​An’ smilèn husbands went in quest O’ what their wives did like the best;  An’ you’d ha’ zeed a happy zight,  Thik merry night, at Herrenston.
An’ then the band, wi’ each his leaf  O’ notes, above us at the zide, Plaÿ’d up the praïse ov England’s beef  An’ vill’d our hearts wi’ English pride; An’ leafy chains o’ garlands hung, Wi’ dazzlèn stripes o’ flags, that swung  Above us, in a bleäze o’ light,  Thik happy night, at Herrenston.
An’ then the clerk, avore the vier,  Begun to lead, wi’ smilèn feäce, A carol, wi’ the Monkton quire.  That rung drough all the crowded pleäce. An’ dins’ o’ words an’ laughter broke In merry peals drough clouds o’ smoke;  Vor hardly wer there woone that spoke,  But pass’d a joke, at Herrenston.
Then man an’ maïd stood up by twos,  In rows, drough passage, out to door, An’ gaïly beät, wi’ nimble shoes,  A dance upon the stwonèn floor. But who is worthy vor to tell, If she that then did bear the bell,  Wer woone o’ Monkton, or o’ Ceäme,  Or zome sweet neäme ov Herrenston.
Zoo peace betide the girt vo’k’s land,  When they can stoop, wi’ kindly smile, An’ teäke a poor man by the hand,  An’ cheer en in his daily tweil. ​An’ oh! mid He that’s vur above The highest here, reward their love,  An’ gi’e their happy souls, drough greäce,  A higher pleäce than Herrenston.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Hope a-left Behind

HOPE A-LEFT BEHIND.
Don’t try to win a maïden’s heart,  To leäve her in her love,—’tis wrong: ’Tis bitter to her soul to peärt  Wi’ woone that is her sweetheart long.  A maïd’s vu’st love is always strong; An’ if do faïl, she’ll linger on, Wi’ all her best o’ pleasure gone,  An’ hope a-left behind her.
Thy poor lost Jenny wer a-grow’d  So kind an’ thoughtvul vor her years, When she did meet wi’ vo’k a-know’d  The best, her love did speak in tears.  She walk’d wi’ thee, an’ had noo fears O’ thy unkindness, till she zeed Herzelf a-cast off lik’ a weed,  An’ hope a-left behind her.
Thy slight turn’d peäle her cherry lip;  Her sorrow, not a-zeed by eyes, Wer lik’ the mildew, that do nip  A bud by darksome midnight skies
 The day mid come, the zun mid rise, But there’s noo hope o’ day nor zun; The storm ha’ blow’d, the harm’s a-done,  An’ hope’s a-left behind her.
The time will come when thou wouldst gi’e  The worold vor to have her smile, Or meet her by the parrock tree, Or catch her jumpèn off the stile;  Thy life’s avore thee vor a while,  But thou wilt turn thy mind in time, An’ zee the deèd as ’tis,—a crime,  An’ hope a-left behind thee.
​Zoo never win a maïden’s heart,  But her’s that is to be thy bride, An’ plaÿ drough life a manly peärt,  An’ if she’s true when time ha’ tried  Her mind, then teäke her by thy zide. True love will meäke thy hardships light, True love will meäke the worold bright,  When hope’s a-left behind thee.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Hope in Spring

HOPE IN SPRING.
In happy times a while agoo,  My lively hope, that’s now a-gone Did stir my heart the whole year drough,  But mwost when green-bough’d spring come on: When I did rove, wi’ litty veet, Drough deäisy-beds so white’s a sheet, But still avore I us’d to meet  The blushèn cheäks that bloom’d vor me!
An’ afterward, in lightsome youth,  When zummer wer a-comèn on, An’ all the trees wer white wi’ blooth,  An’ dippèn zwallows skimm’d the pon’; Sweet hope did vill my heart wi’ jaÿ, An’ tell me, though thik spring wer gaÿ, There still would come a brighter Maÿ,  Wi’ blushèn cheäks to bloom vor me!
An’ when, at last, the time come roun’,  An’ brought a lofty zun to sheen Upon my smilèn Fanny, down  Drough nēsh young leaves o’ yollow green; How charmèn wer the het that glow’d, How charmèn wer the sheäde a-drow’d, How charmèn wer the win’ that blow’d  Upon her cheäks that bloom’d vor me!
But hardly did they times begin,  Avore I vound em short to staÿ: An’ year by year do now come in,  To peärt me wider vrom my jaÿ, Vor what’s to meet, or what’s to peärt, Wi’ maïdens kind, or maïdens smart, When hope’s noo longer in the heart,  An’ cheäks noo mwore do bloom vor me!
​But there’s a worold still to bless  The good, where zickness never rose; An’ there’s a year that’s winterless,  Where glassy waters never vroze; An’ there, if true but e’thly love Do seem noo sin to God above, ’S a smilèn still my harmless dove,  So feäir as when she bloom’d vor me!
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/I'm out o' Door

I’M OUT O’ DOOR.
I’m out, when, in the Winter’s blast,  The zun, a-runnèn lowly round, Do mark the sheädes the hedge do cast  At noon, in hoarvrost, on the ground. I’m out when snow’s a-lyèn white  In keen-aïr’d vields that I do pass, An’ moonbeams, vrom above, do smite  On ice an’ sleeper’s window-glass.  I’m out o’ door,  When win’ do zweep,  By hangèn steep,  Or hollow deep,  At Lindenore.
O welcome is the lewth a-vound  By rustlèn copse, or ivied bank, Or by the haÿ-rick, weather-brown’d  By barken-grass, a-springèn rank; ​Or where the waggon, vrom the team  A-freed, is well a-housed vrom wet, An’ on the dousty cart-house beam  Do hang the cobweb’s white-lin’d net.  While storms do roar,  An’ win’ do zweep,  By hangèn steep,  Or hollow deep,  At Lindenore.
An’ when a good day’s work ’s a-done  An’ I do rest, the while a squall Do rumble in the hollow tun,  An’ ivy-stems do whip the wall. Then in the house do sound about  My ears, dear vaïces vull or thin, A praÿèn vor the souls vur out  At sea, an’ cry wi’ bibb’rèn chin—  Oh! shut the door.  What soul can sleep,  Upon the deep,  When storms do zweep  At Lindenore.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/I know Who

I KNOW WHO.
Aye, aye, vull rathe the zun mus’ rise To meäke us tired o’ zunny skies, A-sheenèn on the whole day drough, From mornèn’s dawn till evenèn’s dew. When trees be brown an’ meäds be green, An’ skies be blue, an’ streams do sheen, An’ thin-edg’d clouds be snowy white Above the bluest hills in zight; But I can let the daylight goo, When I’ve a-met wi’—I know who.
In Spring I met her by a bed O’ laurels higher than her head; The while a rwose hung white between Her blushes an’ the laurel’s green; An’ then in Fall, I went along The row of elems in the drong, An’ heärd her zing bezide the cows, By yollow leaves o’ meäple boughs; But Fall or Spring is feäir to view When day do bring me—I know who.
An’ when, wi’ wint’r a-comèn roun’, The purple he’th’s a-feädèn brown, An’ hangèn vern’s a-sheäkèn dead, Bezide the hill’s besheäded head: An’ black-wing’d rooks do glitter bright Above my head, in peäler light; ​Then though the birds do still the glee That sounded in the zummer tree, My heart is light the winter drough, In me’th at night, wi’—I know who.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Hay Meäken—Nunchen Time

HAY MEAKEN—NUNCHEN TIME.
Anne an’ John a-ta’kèn o’t.
A. Back here, but now, the jobber John   Come by, an’ cried, “Well done, zing on,   I thought as I come down the hill,   An’ heärd your zongs a-ringèn sh’ill,   Who woudden like to come, an’ fling   A peäir o’ prongs where you did zing?”
J. Aye, aye, he woudden vind it plaÿ.   To work all day a-meakèn haÿ,   Or pitchèn o’t, to eärms a-spread   By lwoaders, yards above his head,   ’T’ud meäke en wipe his drippèn brow.
A. Or else a-reäken after plow.
J. Or workèn, wi’ his nimble pick,   A-stiffled wi’ the haÿ, at rick.
​A. Our Company would suit en best,   When we do teäke our bit o’ rest,   At nunch, a-gather’d here below   The sheäde theäse wide-bough’d woak do drow,   Where hissèn froth mid rise, an’ float   In horns o’ eäle, to wet his droat.
J. Aye, if his zwellèn han’ could drag   A meat-slice vrom his dinner bag.   ’T’ud meäke the busy little chap   Look rather glum, to zee his lap   Wi’ all his meal ov woone dry croust,   An’ vinny cheese so dry as doust.
A. Well, I don’t grumble at my food,   ’Tis wholesome, John, an’ zoo ’tis good.
J. Whose reäke is that a-lyèn there?   Do look a bit the woo’se vor wear.
A. Oh! I mus’ get the man to meäke   A tooth or two vor thik wold reäke,   ’Tis leäbour lost to strik a stroke   Wi’ him, wi’ half his teeth a-broke.
J. I should ha’ thought your han’ too fine   To break your reäke, if I broke mine.
A. The ramsclaws thin’d his wooden gum   O’ two teeth here, an’ here were zome   That broke when I did reäke a patch   O’ groun’ wi’ Jimmy, vor a match:   An’ here’s a gap ov woone or two   A-broke by Simon’s clumsy shoe,   An’ when I gi’ed his poll a poke,   Vor better luck, another broke.   In what a veag have you a-swung   Your pick, though, John? His stem’s a-sprung.
​J. When I an’ Simon had a het   O’ pookèn, yonder, vor a bet,   The prongs o’n gi’ed a tump a poke,   An’ then I vound the stem a-broke,   But they do meäke the stems o’ picks   O’ stuff so brittle as a kicks.
A. There’s poor wold Jeäne, wi’ wrinkled skin,   A-tellèn, wi’ her peakèd chin,   Zome teäle ov her young days, poor soul.   Do meäke the young-woones smile. ’Tis droll.   What is it? Stop, an’ let’s goo near.   I do like theäse wold teäles. Let’s hear.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Haÿ-Carrèn

For the poet’s note on haymaking in North Dorset, see the Glossary.
HAY-CARREN.
’Tis merry ov a zummer’s day, When vo’k be out a-haulèn haÿ, Where boughs, a-spread upon the ground, Do meäke the staddle big an’ round; An’ grass do stand in pook, or lie In long-back’d weäles or parsels, dry. There I do vind it stir my heart To hear the frothèn hosses snort, A-haulèn on, wi’ sleek heäir’d hides, The red-wheel’d waggon’s deep-blue zides. Aye; let me have woone cup o’ drink, An’ hear the linky harness clink, An’ then my blood do run so warm, An’ put sich strangth ’ithin my eärm, That I do long to toss a pick, A-pitchèn or a-meäkfen rick.
​The bwoy is at the hosse’s head, An’ up upon the waggon bed The lwoaders, strong o’ eärm do stan’, At head, an’ back at taïl, a man, Wi’ skill to build the lwoad upright An’ bind the vwolded corners tight; An’ at each zide ō’m, sprack an’ strong, A pitcher wi’ his long-stem’d prong, Avore the best two women now A-call’d to reäky after plough.
When I do pitchy, ’tis my pride Vor Jenny Hine to reäke my zide, An’ zee her fling her reäke, an’ reach So vur, an’ teäke in sich a streech; An’ I don’t shatter haÿ, an’ meäke Mwore work than needs vor Jenny’s reäke. I’d sooner zee the weäles’ high rows Lik’ hedges up above my nose, Than have light work myzelf, an’ vind Poor Jeäne a-beät an’ left behind; Vor she would sooner drop down dead. Than let the pitchers get a-head.
’Tis merry at the rick to zee How picks do wag, an’ haÿ do vlee. While woone’s unlwoadèn, woone do teäke The pitches in; an’ zome do meäke The lofty rick upright an’ roun’, An’ tread en hard, an’ reäke en down, An’ tip en, when the zun do zet, To shoot a sudden vall o’ wet. An’ zoo ’tis merry any day Where vo’k be out a-carrèn haÿ.
# Poems of Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in The Bijou, 1829

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
This work is available under the Creative Commons CC0 1.0 Universal Public Domain Dedication.
The person who associated a work with this deed has dedicated the work to the public domain by waiving all of their rights to the work worldwide under copyright law, including all related and neighboring rights, to the extent allowed by law. You can copy, modify, distribute and perform the work, even for commercial purposes, all without asking permission.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
Poems of Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in The Bijou, 1829
compiled by Peter J. Bolton
Contents
* Tivoli
* Lines. The Feast of Life
* Mont Blanc
# Poems of Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in The Bijou, 1829/The Feast of Life

1828
LINES.
THE FEAST OF LIFE.
BY L. E. L.
I bid thee to my mystic Feast, Each one thou lovest is gathered there; Yet put thou on a mourning robe, And bind the cypress in thy hair.
The hall is vast, and cold, and drear; The board with faded flowers is spread; Shadows of beauty flit around, But beauty from which bloom has fled;
And music echoes from the walls, But music with a dirge-like sound; And pale and silent are the guests, And every eye is on the ground.
Here, take this cup, tho' dark it seem, And drink to human hopes and fears; 'Tis from their native element The cup is filled—it is of tears.
What! turnest thou with averted brow? Thou scornest this poor feast of mine; And askest for a purple robe, Light words, glad smiles, and sunny wine.
In vain, the veil has left thine eyes, Or such these would have seemed to thee; Before thee is the Feast of Life, But life in its reality!
# Poems of Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in The Bijou, 1828

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
This work is available under the Creative Commons CC0 1.0 Universal Public Domain Dedication.
The person who associated a work with this deed has dedicated the work to the public domain by waiving all of their rights to the work worldwide under copyright law, including all related and neighboring rights, to the extent allowed by law. You can copy, modify, distribute and perform the work, even for commercial purposes, all without asking permission.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
Poems of Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in The Bijou, 1828
compiled by Peter J. Bolton
Contents
* The City of the Dead
* Sans Souci
# Poems of Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in The Bijou, 1828/Sans Souci

* T. Stothard, R.A. Engraved by R. Brandard.
* SANS SOUCI.
* Published by William Pickering, Chancery Lane, Sept'r 1827
SANS SOUCI.
By L. E. L.
Come ye forth to our revel by moonlight,  With your lutes and your spirits in tune; The dew falls to-night like an odour,  Stars weep o'er our last day in June. Come maids leave the loom and its purple,  Though the robe of a monarch were there; Seek your mirror, I know 'tis your dearest,  And be it to-night your sole care.
Braid ye your curls in their thousands,  Whether dark as the raven's dark wing, Or bright as that clear summer colour,  When sunshine lights every ring. On each snow ankle lace silken sandal,  Don the robes like the neck they hide white; Then come forth like planets from darkness,  Or like lilies at day-break's first light.
Is there one who half regal in beauty,  Would be regal in pearl and in gem; Let her wreath her a crown of red roses,  No rubies are equal to them. Is there one who sits languid and lonely,  With her fair face bowed down on her hand, With a pale cheek and glittering eyelash,  And careless locks 'scaped from their band.
For a lover not worth that eye's tear-drop,  Not worth that sweet mouth's rosy kiss, Nor that cheek though 'tis faded to paleness;  I know not the lover that is. Let her bind up her beautiful tresses;  Call her wandering rose back again; And for one prisoner 'scaping her bondage,  A hundred shall carry her chain.
Come, gallants, the gay and the graceful,  With hearts like the light plumes ye wear; Eyes all but divine light our revel,  Like the stars in whose beauty they share. Come ye, for the wine cups are mantling,  Some clear as the morning's first light; Others touched with the evening's last crimson,  Or the blush that may meet ye to night.
There are plenty of sorrows to chill us,  And troubles last on to the grave; But the coldest glacier has its rose-tint,  And froth rides the stormiest wave. Oh! Hope will spring up from its ashes,  With plumage as bright as before; And pleasures like lamps in a palace,  If extinct, you need only light more.
When one vein of silver's exhausted,  'Tis easy another to try; There are fountains enough in the desert,  Though that by your palm-tree be dry: When an India of gems is around you,  Why ask for the one you have not? Though the roc in your hall may be wanting,  Be contented with what you have got.
Come to-night, for the white blossomed myrtle  Is flinging its love-sighs around; And beneath like the veiled eastern beauties,  The violets peep from the ground. Seek ye for gold and for silver,  There are both on these bright orange-trees; And never in Persia the moonlight  Wept o'er roses more blushing than these.
There are fireflies sparkling by myriads,  The fountain wave dances in light; Hark! the mandolin's first notes are waking,  And soft steps break the sleeping of night. Then come all the young and the graceful,  Come gay as the lovely should be, 'Tis much in this world's toil and trouble,  To let one midnight pass Sans Souci.
# Poems of Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in The Amulet, 1836/May Morning

* MAY MORNING
* Painted by J. InskipEngraved by C. Rolls
MAY MORNING.
BY L. E. L.
Up with the morning, and up with the sun, Night, with its dreams and its shadows, is done; The lilac's small stars in their thousands arise, While the garden is filled with their languishing sighs, I must away with the earliest hours, To gather the may-dew that lies in the flowers.
The yellow laburnum, the spendthrift of spring, How lavish the wealth which its bright branches fling, Is rich as the bough which the sybil of yore To chase the dark spirits of Acheron bore. Ah yet, at the sight of its gladness, depart The shadows that gather in gloom o'er the heart.
The violets open their eyes in the grass, Each one has a dew-drop to serve as a glass; Last night in their shelter the fairy queen slept; And to thank the sweet watch o'er her sleep which they kept,
The look which she gave them at parting left there The blue of her eyes, and the scent of her hair.
With his wings filled with music, the bee is abroad, He seeks the wild thyme-beds of which he is lord. The lark starts from slumber, and up-soaring flings The night-tears the clover had shed on his wings. The chirp of the grasshopper gladdens the field, For all things their mirth or their melody yield.
The glory of spring, and the glory of morn, O'er all the wide world in their beauty are borne; For the winter is gone to the snows of the north, And the promise of summer in green leaves looks forth. The red rose has summoned her sisters from rest, And earth with the sight of the lovely is blest.
I too will go forth, I too will renew My bloom and my spirits in sunshine and dew. I hear the birds singing, and feel that their song Bears my own heart that shareth their gladness along. Ah, let me away with the earliest hours, To gather the may-dew that lies in the flowers.
# Poems of Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in The Amulet, 1836/The Hermit’s Grave

THE HERMIT'S GRAVE.
BY L. E. L.
The days are gone when pilgrims knelt  By sacred spot or shrine, The cells where saints have lived or died  No more are held divine.
The bough of palm, the scallop-shell,  Are signs of faith no more; The common grave is holy held,  As that on Salem's shore.
Yet, when I knew that human knee  Had worn the rock away, And that here, even at my feet,  Earth hid the righteous clay;
I felt this was no common spot  For any common thought, The place's own calm sanctity  Within my spirit wrought.
The cave was dark and damp, it spoke  Of penance and of prayer, Remorse, that scarcely dared to hope,  And heavy grief were there.
But at the entrance was a scene  Which seemed expressly given, To bring the heart again to earth,  Yet win it back to heaven.
For so benign an influence  Was falling from the sky, And, like a blessing on the earth,  The sunshine seemed to lie:
The long green grass was full of life,  And so was every tree, On every bough there was a bud,  In every bud a bee.
And life hath such a gladdening power  Thus in its joy arrayed, The God who made the world so fair,  Must love what he has made.
Fed by the silver rains, a brook  Went murmuring along, And to its music, from the leaves,  The birds replied in song;
And, white as ever lily grew,  A wilding broom essayed To fling upon the sunny wave  A transitory shade.
Misty and grey as morning skies  Mid which their summits stood, The ancient cliffs encompassed round  The lovely solitude.
It was a scene where faith would take  Lessons from all it saw, And feel amid its depths, that hope  Was God's and Nature's law.
The past might here be wept away,  The future might renew Its early confidence in heaven,  When years and sins were few:
Till, in the strength of penitence,  To the worst sinner given, The grave would seem a resting-place  Between this world and heaven.
'Tis but a pious memory  That lingers in this dell, That human tears, and human prayers,  Have sanctified the cell.
Save for that memory, all we see  Were only some fair scene, Not linked unto our present time,  By aught that once hath been.
But now a moral influence  Is on that small grey stone; For who e'er watched another's grave  And thought not of his own,
And felt that all his trust in life  Was leaning on a reed? And who can hear of prayer and faith  And not confess their need?
If he who sleeps beneath thought years  Of prayer might scarce suffice To reconcile his God, and win  A birthright in the skies,
What may we hope, who hurry on  Through life's tumultuous day, And scarcely give one little hour  To heaven upon our way!
# Poems of Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in The Bijou, 1829/Mont Blanc

1828
* MONT BLANC.
* Artist: J. M. W. Turner R. A. - Engraved by: Davies
MONT BLANC.
BY L. E. L.
Heaven knows our travellers have sufficiently alloyed the beautiful, and profaned the sublime, by associating these with themselves, the common-place, and the ridiculous; but out upon them, thus to tread on the grey hairs of centuries,—on the untrodden snows of Mont Blanc.
Thou monarch of the upper air, Thou mighty temple given For morning's earliest of light, And evening's last of heaven. The vapour from the marsh, the smoke From crowded cities sent, Are purified before they reach Thy loftier element. Thy hues are not of earth but heaven; Only the sunset rose Hath leave to fling a crimson dye Upon thy stainless snows.
Now out on those adventurers Who scaled thy breathless height, And made thy pinnacle, Mont Blanc, A thing for common sight.
Before that human step had left Its sully on thy brow, The glory of thy forehead made A shrine to those below: Men gaz'd upon thee as a star, And turned to earth again, With dreams like thine own floating clouds, The vague but not the vain. No feelings are less vain than those That bear the mind away, Till blent with nature's mysteries It half forgets its clay. It catches loftier impulses; And owns a nobler power;— The poet and philosopher Are born of such an hour.
But now where may we seek a place For any spirit's dream; Our steps have been o'er every soil, Our sails o'er every stream. Those isles, the beautiful Azores, The fortunate, the fair! We looked for their perpetual spring To find it was not there. Bright El Dorado, land of gold, We have so sought for thee, There's not a spot in all the globe Where such a land can be.
How pleasant were the wild beliefs That dwelt in legends old, Alas! to our posterity Will no such tales be told. We know too much, scroll after scroll Weighs down our weary shelves; Our only point of ignorance Is centered in ourselves. Alas! for thy past mystery, For thine untrodden snow, Nurse of the tempest, hadst thou none To guard thy outraged brow? Thy summit, once the unapproached, Hath human presence owned, With the first step upon thy crest Mont Blanc, thou wert dethroned.