OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# The Complete Poems of Paul Laurence Dunbar/My Lady Of Castle Grand

MY LADY OF CASTLE GRAND
Gray is the palace where she dwells,  Grimly the poplars stand There by the window where she sits,  My Lady of Castle Grand.
There does she bide the livelong day,  Grim as the poplars are, Ever her gaze goes reaching out,  Steady, but vague and far.
Bright burn the fires in the castle hall,  Brightly the fire-dogs stand; But cold is the body and cold the heart  Of my Lady of Castle Grand.
Blue are the veins in her lily-white hands,  Blue are the veins in her brow; Thin is the line of her blue drawn lips,  Who would be haughty now?
Pale is the face at the window-pane,  Pale as the pearl on her breast, "Roderick, love, wilt come again?  Fares he to east or west?"
The shepherd pipes to the shepherdess,  The bird to his mate in the tree, And ever she sighs as she hears their song,  "Nobody sings for me."
The scullery maids have swains enow  Who lead them the way of love, But lonely and loveless their mistress sits  At her window up above.
Loveless and lonely she waits and waits,  The saddest in all the land; Ah, cruel and lasting is love-blind pride,  My Lady of Castle Grand.
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 Complete Poems of Paul Laurence Dunbar/Night of Love

NIGHT OF LOVE
The moon has left the sky, love,  The stars are hiding now, And frowning on the world, love,  Night bares her sable brow. The snow is on the ground, love,  And cold and keen the air is. I 'm singing here to you, love;  You 're dreaming there in Paris.
But this is Nature's law, love,  Though just it may not seem, That men should wake to sing, love,  While maidens sleep and dream. Them care may not molest, love,  Nor stir them from their slumbers, Though midnight find the swain, love,  Still halting o'er his numbers.
I watch the rosy dawn, love,  Come stealing up the east, While all things round rejoice, love,  That Night her reign has ceased. The lark will soon be heard, love,  And on his way be winging; When Nature's poets wake, love,  Why should a man be singing?
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 Complete Poems of Paul Laurence Dunbar/My Little March Girl

MY LITTLE MARCH GIRL
Come to the pane, draw the curtain apart, There she is passing, the girl of my heart; See where she walks like a queen in the street, Weather-defying, calm, placid and sweet. Tripping along with impetuous grace, Joy of her life beaming out of her face, Tresses all truant-like, curl upon curl, Wind-blown and rosy, my little March girl.
Hint of the violet's delicate bloom, Hint of the rose's pervading perfume! How can the wind help from kissing her face,— Wrapping her round in his stormy embrace? But still serenely she laughs at his rout, She is the victor who wins in the bout. So may life's passions about her soul swirl, Leaving it placid,—my little March girl.
What self-possession looks out of her eyes! What are the wild winds, and what are the skies, Frowning and glooming when, brimming with life, Cometh the little maid ripe for the strife? Ah! Wind, and bah! Wind, what might have you now? What can you do with that innocent brow? Blow, Wind, and grow, Wind, and eddy and swirl, But bring her to me, Wind,—my little March girl.
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 Complete Poems of Paul Laurence Dunbar/My Sort O' Man

MY SORT O' MAN
I don't believe in 'ristercrats  An' never did, you see; The plain ol' homelike sorter folks  Is good enough fur me. O' course, I don't desire a man  To be too tarnal rough, But then, I think all folks should know  When they air nice enough.
Now there is folks in this here world,  From peasant up to king, Who want to be so awful nice  They overdo the thing. That's jest the thing that makes me sick,  An' quicker 'n a wink I set it down that them same folks  Ain't half so good 's you think.
I like to see a man dress nice,  In clothes becomin' too; I like to see a woman fix  As women orter to do; An' boys an' gals I like to see  Look fresh an' young an' spry.— We all must have our vanity  An' pride before we die.
But I jedge no man by his clothes,—  Nor gentleman nor tramp; The man that wears the finest suit  May be the biggest scamp, An' he whose limbs air clad in rags  That make a mournful sight, In life's great battle may have proved  A hero in the fight.
I don't believe in 'ristercrats;  I like the honest tan That lies upon the healthful cheek  An' speaks the honest man; I like to grasp the brawny hand  That labor's lips have kissed, For he who has not labored here  Life's greatest pride has missed:
The pride to feel that yore own strength  Has cleaved fur you the way To heights to which you were not born,  But struggled day by day. What though the thousands sneer an' scoff,  An' scorn yore humble birth? Kings are but puppets; you are king  By right o' royal worth.
The man who simply sits an' waits  Fur good to come along, Ain't worth the breath that one would take  To tell him he is wrong. Fur good ain't flowin' round this world  Fur every fool to sup; You 've got to put yore see-ers on,  An' go an' hunt it up.
Good goes with honesty, I say,  To honour an' to bless; To rich an' poor alike it brings  A wealth o' happiness. The 'ristercrats ain't got it all,  Fur much to their su'prise, That's one of earth's most blessed things  They can't monopolize.
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 Complete Poems of Paul Laurence Dunbar/Nature and Art

NATURE AND ART
TO MY FRIEND CHARLES BOOTH NETTLETON
 I
The young queen Nature, ever sweet and fair,  Once on a time fell upon evil days.  From hearing oft herself discussed with praise, There grew within her heart the longing rare To see herself; and every passing air  The warm desire fanned into lusty blaze.  Full oft she sought this end by devious ways, But sought in vain, so fell she in despair. For none within her train nor by her side  Could solve the task or give the envied boon.  So day and night, beneath the sun and moon, She wandered to and fro unsatisfied,  Till Art came by, a blithe inventive elf,  And made a glass wherein she saw herself.
 II
Enrapt, the queen gazed on her glorious self,  Then trembling with the thrill of sudden thought,  Commanded that the skilful wight be brought That she might dower him with lands and pelf. Then out upon the silent sea-lapt shelf  And up the hills and on the downs they sought  Him who so well and wondrously had wrought; And with much search found and brought home the elf.  But he put by all gifts with sad replies, And from his lips these words flowed forth like wine:  "O queen, I want no gift but thee," he said. She heard and looked on him with love-lit eyes, Gave him her hand, low murmuring, "I am thine,"  And at the morrow's dawning they were wed.
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 Complete Poems of Paul Laurence Dunbar/Night, Dim Night

NIGHT, DIM NIGHT
Night, dim night, and it rains, my love, it rains,  (Art thou dreaming of me, I wonder) The trees are sad, and the wind complains,  Outside the rolling of the thunder, And the beat against the panes.
Heart, my heart, thou art mournful in the rain,  (Are thy redolent lips a-quiver?) My soul seeks thine, doth it seek in vain?  My love goes surging like a river, Shall its tide bear naught save pain?
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 Botany of the Antarctic Voyage/Plate CXXXV

Aira Kingii Hook. fil.
# The Botany of the Antarctic Voyage/Plate I

Plate I
Ranunculus pinguis Hook. fil.
Fitch del. prel. lith. Linn. imp.
# The Botany of the Antarctic Voyage/Plate CXXXIX

Festuca Cookii Hook. fil.
# The Botany of the Antarctic Voyage/Plate CXXXVI.CXXXVII

Dactylis cæspitosa Forst.
# The Botany of the Antarctic Voyage/Plate III

Plate III
Cardamine depressa Hook. fil.
Fitch del. prel. lith. Linn. imp.
# The Botany of the Antarctic Voyage/Plate IX.X

Plate IX X
Fitch del. prel lith Linn imp.
Anisotome antipoda Hook. fil.
# The Botany of the Antarctic Voyage/Plate IV

Plate IV
Fitch del. prel. lith. Linn. imp.
A. Cardamine stellata Hook. fil. B. Cardamine depressa var. β
# The Botany of the Antarctic Voyage/Plate L

Isolepis Aucklandica Hook. fil.
# The Botany of the Antarctic Voyage/Plate CXXXVIII

Poa Kerguelensis Hook. fil.
# The Botany of the Antarctic Voyage/Plate II

Plate II
Ranunculus acaulis Banks & Sol.
Fitch del. prel. lith. Linn. imp.
# The Book of Scottish Song/The tears I shed

The tears I shed.
[This highly finished lyric was the production of Mrs. Dugald Stewart, the excellent and accomplished wife of the celebrated professor of moral philosophy in the university of Edinburgh. Her maiden name was Helen D'Arcy Cranstoun, and she was the daughter of the Hon. George Cranstoun, youngest son of William, fifth Lord Cranstoun. She was born in the year 1765, married in 1790, and died so recently as the 28th July, 1835. The song was first pubhshed in the fourth volume of Johnson's Museum (1792,) adapted to an air, by John Barret, an old English composer, called "Ianthe the lovely." The same air was selected by Gay for one of his songs in "The Beggar's Opera,"—"When he holds up his hands arraigned for life."—The first four lines of the last stanza were written by Burns, to suit the music, which requires double verses.]
The tears I shed must ever fall: I mourn not for an absent swain; For thoughts may past delights recall, And parted lovers meet again. I weep not for the silent dead: Their toils are past, their sorrows o'er; And those they loved their steps shall tread, And death shall join to part no more.
Though boundless oceans roll between, If certain that his heart is near, A conscious transport glads each scene, Soft is the sigh, and sweet the tear. E'en when by death's cold hand removed, We mourn the tenant of the tomb: To think that e'en in death he loved, Can gild the horrors of the gloom.
But bitter, bitter are the tears Of her who slighted love bewails; No hope her dreary prospect cheers, No pleasing melancholy hails. Hers are the pangs of wounded pride, Of blasted hope, of withered joy; The flatt'ring veil is rent aside, The flame of love burns to destroy.
In vain does memory renew The hours once tinged in transport's dye; The sad reverse soon starts to view, And turns the past to agony. E'en time itself despairs to cure Those pangs to ev'ry feeling due: Ungenerous youth! thy boast how poor, To win a heart—and break it too.
No cold approach, no alter'd mien, Just what would make suspicion start; No pause the dire extremes between, He made me blest—and broke my heart. From hope, the wretched's anchor, torn; Neglected and neglecting all; Friendless, forsaken, and forlorn; The tear I shed must ever fall.
# The Book of Scottish Song/The tither morn

The tither morn.
[Written by Burns to a Gaelic air, and contributed to the Museum. The second strain of the tune strongly resembles the second part of "Fee him, father, fee him."]
The tither morn, When I forlorn, Aneath an aik sat moaning, I did na trow, I'd see my Jo, Beside me gin the gloaming. But he sae trig, Lap o'er the rig, And dawtingly did cheer me. When I, what reck, Did least expec', To see my lad so near me.
His bonnet he, A thought ajee, Cock'd sprush when first he clasp'd me; And I, I wat, Wi' fainness grat, While in his grips he press'd me. Deil tak' the war! I late and air, Ha'e wish'd since Jock departed, But now as glad I'm wi' my lad, As short syne broken-hearted.
Fu' aft at e'en Wi' dancing keen, When a' were blythe and merry, I cared na by Sae sad was I In absence o' my dearie. But, praise be blest, My mind's at rest, I'm happy wi' my Johnny; At kirk and fair, I'se aye be there, And be as canty's ony.
# The Book of Scottish Song/The waes of Scotland

The waes of Scotland.
[This pathetic Jacobite effusion was contributed by Allan Cunningham to Cromek's Remains of Nithsdale and Galloway Song. It is sung to the tune of "The Siller Crown."]
When I left thee, bonnie Scotland, O fair wert thou to see! And blythe as a bonnie bride i' the morn, When she maun wedded be. When I came back to thee, Scotland, Upon a May-morn fair, A bonnie lass sat at our town end, A kaming her yellow hair.
Oh hey! oh hey! sung the bonnie lass, Oh hey, and wae is me! There's siccan sorrow in Scotland, As een did never see. Oh hey, oh hey, for my father auld! Oh hey, for my mither dear! And my heart will burst for the bonnie lad Wha left me lanesome here.
I hadna gane in my ain Scotland Mae miles than twa or three, When I saw the head o' my ain faither Borne up the gate to me. A traitor's head! and, A traitor's head! Loud bawl'd a bloody loon; But I drew frae the sheath my glaive o' weir, And strack the reaver down.
I hied me hame to my father's ha', My dear auld mither to see; But she lay 'mang the black eizels, Wi' the death-tear in her e'e. O wha has wrought this bloody wark? Had I the reaver here, I'd wash his sark in his ain heart's blood, And gi'e't to his love to wear.
I hadna gane frae my ain dear hame But twa short miles an three, Till up came a captain o' the Whigs, Says, Traitor, bide ye me! I grippet him by the belt sae braid, It bursted i' my hand, But I threw him frae his weir-saddle, And drew my burly brand.
Shaw mercy on me, quo' the loon, And low he knelt on knee, And by his thigh was my father's glaive Which gude king Bruce did gi'e; And buckled round him was the broider'd belt Which my mither's hands did weave— My tears they mingled wi' his heart's blood, And reek'd upon my glaive.
I wander a' night 'mang the lands I own'd, When a' folk are asleep; And I lie o'er my father and mither's grave An hour or twa to weep. O, fatherless and mitherless, Without a ha' or hame, I maun wander through my dear Sootland, And bide a traitor's name.
# The Book of Scottish Song/The spinning o't

The spinning o’t.
[Tune, "Rock and wee pickle tow."]
Now Sandy, the winter's cauld blasts are awa', And simmer, we've seen the beginning o't; I've lang been wearied o' frost and o' snaw, And sair ha'e I tired o' the spinning o't; ​For when we were married our cleeding was thin, And poortith, ye ken, made me eident to spin, 'Twas fain love o' you that first gart me begin, And blessings ha'e followed the spinning o't.
When mornings were cauld, and the keen frost and snaw Were blawin', I mind the beginning o't, And je gaed to wark, be it frost or be't thaw, My task was nae less at the spinning o't: But now we've a pantry baith muckle and fu' O' ilka thing gude for to gang in the mou'; A barrel o' ale, wi' some maut for to brew, To mak' us forget the beginning o't.
And when winter comes back, wi' the snell hail and rain, Nae mair I sit down to the spinning o't, Nor you gang to toil in the cauld fields again, As little think on the beginning o't: O' sheep we ha'e scores, and o' kye twenty-five, Far less we ha'e seen wad made us fu' blythe; But thrift and industry maks poor fouk to thrive, A clear proof o' that is the spinning o't,
Although at our marriage our stock was but sma', And heartless and hard the beginning o't, When ye was engaged the owsen to ca', And first my young skill tried the spinning o't; But now we can dress in our plaidies sae sma', Fu' neat and fu' clean gae to kirk or to ha', And look aye as blythe as the best o' them a', Sic luck has been o' the beginning o't.
# The Book of Scottish Song/The unco bit want

The unco bit want.
[Watson.—Tune, "Woo'd and married and a'."]
I am a young lass in my blossom, My age is about twenty-one, Quite ready to lie i' the bosom O' some merry hearted young man; ​I've baith bread and kitchen nae scanty, An' gowns i' the fashion fu' braw: But aye there's an unco bit wantie, That fashes me mair than them a'. Ripe an' ready an' a'. Ripe an' ready an' a', I wish I may get a bit man Afore my beauty gae wa'.
A' day as I spin' wi' my mither, An' lilt owre mysel' a bit sang, How lasses an' lads gae thegither, O, sirs, but it gars me think lang; A' night syne I'm like to gang crazy, I dream, an' I row, an' I gaunt, Whare I might be lying fu' easy, An't warna that unco bit want. Ripe and ready, &c.
Young Andro' comes whyles at the gloamin', An' draws in a stool by my side; But aye he's sae fear't for a woman, That aften his face he maun hide. I steave up my temper-string gayly, An' whyles a bit verse I do chaunt; For lasses, ye ken, maun be wylie, To mak' up their unco bit want. Ripe and ready, &c.
I'm thinkin', some night when he's risin', I'll mak' a bit step to the door, An' raise a bit crack that's enticin', To heighten his courage a bore— For O gin the laddie wad kipple, Sae merrily as we will rant; The punch out o' jugs we will tipple, The night I get free o' my want. Ripe an' ready an' a'. Ready an' ripe an' a', I'll mak' a guid wife to the laddie Gin ever he tak' me ava'.
ANSWER.
Dear Maggie, I'm doubtfu' ye're jokin', I wish ye may like me sae weel; O' luve though I ne'er yet ha'e spoken, It fashes me sair, I watweel; Yer cheeks are sae roun' an' sae rosey— Yer e'en ha'e sae witchin' a cant— Yer breath is as sweet as a posey, An' fain wad I mak' up yer want. Kiss an' daut ye an' a', Daut an' kiss ye an' a'; Young Andro' wad think himsel' happy To kiss an' daut ye an' a'.
The morn I sall speak to my father, To big us an inset an' spence; Some plenishin' syne we will gather, An' get a' thing manag't wi' mense; I'll get a wheen sarks frae my mither: Mae kail i' the yard I will plant; An' then, when we're buckl't thegither, I'll mak' up yer unco bit want. Kiss an' daut, &c.
At e'en, when wi' toilin' I'm weary, An' beasts i' the stable an' byre, I'll get a bit crack wi' my dearie, An' dry my pleugh hose by the fire. E'en lairds, wha' in coaches are carried, A bonnier bride canna vaunt— An' Maggie, lass, when we are married, I'll mak' up your unco bit want. Kiss an' daut, &c.
Though some tak' offence at our freedom, An' raise up a quarrelsome din, To gar us believe, gin we heed them, That tellin' the truth is a sin, Wi' lang chaftit modest pretences, They fain wad appear to be saunts; Yet few, wha's endow'd wi' their senses, But wishes supply for their wants. Kissin' an' dautin' an' a', Dautin' an' kissin' an' a', There's naething been langer in fashion. Than kissin' an' dautin' an' a'.
# The Book of Scottish Song/The troops were embark'd

The troops were embark'd.
[John Mayne.]
The troops were all embark'd on board; The ships were under weigh; And loving wives, and maids adored, Were weeping round the bay.
They parted from their dearest friends, From all their heart desires; And Rosabell to heaven commends The man her soul admires!
For him, she fled from soft repose; Renounced a parent's care: He sails to crush his country's foes— She wanders in despair!
A seraph in an infant's frame, Reclined upon her arm; And sorrow, in the comely dame, Now heigh ten'd every charm:
She thought, if fortune had but smiled— She thought upon her dear; But when she look'd upon his child, O! then ran many a tear!
"Ah! who will watch thee as thou sleep'st? Who'll sing a lullaby, Or rock thy cradle when thou weep'st, If I should chance to die!"
On board the ship, resign'd to fate, Yet planning joys to come, Her love in silent sorrow sate, Upon a broken drum:
He saw her lonely on the beach; He saw her on the strand; And far as human eye can reach, He saw her wave her hand!
"O, Rosabell! though forced to go, With thee my soul shall dwell; And heaven, who pities human woe, Will comfort Rosabell."
# The Book of Scottish Song/The unco Grave

The unco Grave.
[T. M. Cunningham.]
Bonnie Clouden, as ye wander, Hills, an' heughs, an' muirs amang, Ilka knowe an' green meander, Learn my sad, my dulefu' sang! Braes o' breckan, hills o' heather, Howms whare rows the gowden wave: Blissful scenes! fareweel for ever! I maun seek an unco grave.
Sair I pled, though fate, unfriendly, Stang'd my heart wi' waes and dules, That some faithfu' hand might kindly Lay't amang my native mools. Cronies dear, wha late an' early, Aye to soothe my sorrows strave, Think on ane wha lo'es you dearly, Doom'd to seek an unco grave.
Torn awa' frae Scotia's mountains, Far frae a' that's dear to dwall, Mak's my e'en twa gushin' fountains, Sings a dirk in my puir saul. Braes o' breckan, hills o' heather, Howms whare row the gowden wave, Blissfu' scenes, fareweel for ever, I maun seek an unco grave!
# The Book of Scottish Song/The sun had slipped

The sun had slipped.
[David Vedder.—From "The Edinburgh Literary Gazette," vol. II. 1830.]
The sun had slipped ayont the hill, The darg was done in barn an' byre; The carle himsel', come hame frae the mill, Was luntin' his cutty before the fire: The lads and lasses had just sitten down, The hearth was sweepit fu' canty an' clean, When the cadgie laird o' Windlestraetown Cam' in for till haud his Hallowe'en.
The gudewife beck'd, the carle boo'd; In owre to the deas the laird gaed he; The swankies a', they glowr'd like wud, The lasses leugh i' their sleeves sae slee; An' sweet wee Lilias was unco fear'd, Tho' she blumed like a rose in a garden green; An' sair she blush'd when she saw the laird Come there for till haud his Hallowe'en! ​"Now haud ye merry," quo' Windlestraetown, "I downa come here your sport to spill,— Rax down the nits, ye unco like loon, For though I am auld, I am gleesome still: An' Lilias, my pet, to burn wi' me, Ye winna be sweer, right weel I ween, However it gangs my fate I'll dree, Since here I am haudin' my Hallowe'en."
The pawky auld wife, at the chimly-cheek, Took courage an' spak', as a mither should do; "Noo baud up yere head, my dochter meek,— A laird comesna here ilk night to woo! He'll mak' you a lady, and that right soon, I dreamt it twice owre, I'm sure, yestreen."— "A bargain be't," quo' Windlestraetown,— "It's lucky to book on Hallowe'en!"
"I'll stick by the nits, for better, for waur,— Will ye do the like, my bonny May? Ye sall shine at my board like the gloamin' star, An' gowd in gowpins ye's ha'e for aye!" — The nits are cannilie laid on the ingle, Weel, weel are they tented wi' anxious e'en; And sweetlie in ase thegither they mingle: "Not blessed for aye be this Hallowe'en!"