OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# The Book of Scottish Song/The toom Meal pock

The toom Meal pock.
[Written by John Robertson of Paisley about the year 1793. It is to be lamented that the distress of that period, which is here half jocularly depicted, has been succeeded in recent days by a much deeper and more universal state of privation.]
Preserve us a'! what shall we do, Thir dark unhallowed times? We're surely dreeing penance now, For some most awfu' crimes. Sedition daurna now appear, In reality or joke, For ilka chiel maim mourn wi' me, O' a hinging toom meal pock. And sing, Oh waes me!
When lasses braw gaed out at e'en, For sport and pastime free, I seem'd like ane in paradise, The moments quick did flee. Like Venuses they a' appeared, Weel pouthered was their locks, 'Twas easy dune, when at their hame, Wi' the shaking o' their pocks. And sing, Oh waes me!
How happy past my former days, Wi' merry heartsome glee, When smiling fortune held the cup, And peace sat on my knee; Nae wants had I but were supplied, My heart wi' joy did knock, When in the neuk I smiling saw A gaucie weel fill'd pock. And sing, Oh waes me!
Speak no ae word about reform, Nor petition Parliament, A wiser scheme I'll now propose, I'm sure ye'll gi'e consent— Send up a chiel or twa like me, As a sample o' the flock, Whase hollow cheeks will be sure proof, O' a hinging toom meal pock. And sing, Oh waes me!
And should a sicht sae ghastly like, Wi' rags, and banes, and skin, Ha'e nae impression on yon folks, But tell ye'll stand ahin: O what a contrast will ye shaw, To the glowrin' Lunnun folk, When in St. James' ye tak' your stand, Wi' a hinging toom meal pock. And sing, Oh waes me!
Then rear your hand, and glowr, and stare, Before yon hills o' beef, Tell them ye are frae Scotland come, For Scotia's relief; Tell them ye are the vera best, Wal'd frae the fattest flock, Then raise your arms, and Oh! display A hinging toom meal pock. And sing, Oh waes me!
Tell them ye're wearied o' the chain That hauds the state thegither, For Scotland wishes just to tak' Gude nicht wi' ane anither. We canna thole, we canna bide, This hard unwieldy yoke, For wark and want but ill agree, Wi' a hinging toom meal pock. And sing, Oh waes me!
# The Book of Scottish Song/The waes o' Scotland

The waes o' Scotland.
[This is an abridged version of a Jacobite ballad by Allan Cunningham.]
When I left thee, bonnie Scotland, O thou wert fair to see! Fresh as a bonnie bride in 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, 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 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 motherless, Without a ha' or hame, I maun wander through my dear Scotland, And bide a traitor's blame.
# The Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier/The Fishermen

THE FISHERMEN
Hurrah! the seaward breezes Sweep down the bay amain; Heave up, my lads, the anchor! Run up the sail again! Leave to the lubber landsmen The rail-car and the steed; The stars of heaven shall guide us, The breath of heaven shall speed.
From the hill-top looks the steeple, And the lighthouse from the sand;
And the scattered pines are waving Their farewell from the land. One glance, my lads, behind us, For the homes we leave one sigh, Ere we take the change and chances Of the ocean and the sky.
Now, brothers, for the icebergs Of frozen Labrador, Floating spectral in the moonshine, Along the low, black shore! Where like snow the gannet’s feathers On Brador’s rocks are shed, And the noisy murr are flying, Like black scuds, overhead;
Where in mist the rock is hiding, And the sharp reef lurks below, And the white squall smites in summer, And the autumn tempests blow; Where, through gray and rolling vapor, From evening unto morn, A thousand boats are hailing, Horn answering unto horn.
Hurrah! for the Red Island, With the white cross on its crown! Hurrah! for Meccatina, And its mountains bare and brown! Where the Caribou’s tall antlers O’er the dwarf-wood freely toss, And the footstep of the Mickmack Has no sound upon the moss.
There we ’ll drop our lines, and gather Old Ocean’s treasures in, Where’er the mottled mackerel Turns up a steel-dark fin. The sea ’s our field of harvest, Its scaly tribes our grain; We ’ll reap the teeming waters As at home they reap the plain!
Our wet hands spread the carpet, And light the hearth of home; From our fish, as in the old time, The silver coin shall come. As the demon fled the chamber Where the fish of Tobit lay, So ours from all our dwellings Shall frighten Want away.
Though the mist upon our jackets In the bitter air congeals, And our lines wind stiff and slowly From off the frozen reels; Though the fog be dark around us, And the storm blow high and loud, We will whistle down the wild wind, And laugh beneath the cloud!
In the darkness as in daylight, On the water as on land, God’s eye is looking on us, And beneath us is His hand! Death will find us soon or later, On the deck or in the cot; And we cannot meet him better Than in working out our lot.
Hurrah! hurrah! the west-wind Comes freshening down the bay, The rising sails are filling; Give way, my lads, give way! Leave the coward landsman clinging To the dull earth, like a weed; The stars of heaven shall guide us, The breath of heaven shall speed!
# The Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier/The Gift of Tritemius

THE GIFT OF TRITEMIUS
Tritemius of Herbipolis, one day, While kneeling at the altar’s foot to pray Alone with God, as was his pious choice, Heard from without a miserable voice, A sound which seemed of all sad things to tell, As of a lost soul crying out of hell.
Thereat the Abbot paused; the chain whereby His thoughts went upward broken by that cry; And, looking from the casement, saw below A wretched woman, with gray hair a-flow, And withered hands held up to him, who cried For alms as one who might not be denied.
She cried, “For the dear love of Him who gave His life for ours, my child from bondage save,— My beautiful, brave first-born, chained with slaves In the Moor’s galley, where the sun-smit waves Lap the white walls of Tunis!”—“What I can
I give,” Tritemius said, “my prayers.”—“O man Of God!” she cried, for grief had made her bold, “Mock me not thus; I ask not prayers, but gold. Words will not serve me, alms alone suffice; Even while I speak perchance my first-born dies.”
“Woman!” Tritemius answered, “from our door None go unfed, hence are we always poor; A single soldo is our only store. Thou hast our prayers;—what can we give thee more?”
“Give me,” she said, “the silver candle-sticks On either side of the great crucifix. God well may spare them on His errands sped, Or He can give you golden ones instead.”
Then spake Tritemius, “Even as thy word, Woman, so be it! (Our most gracious Lord, Who loveth mercy more than sacrifice, Pardon me if a human soul I prize Above the gifts upon his altar piled!) Take what thou askest, and redeem thy child.”
But his hand trembled as the holy alms He placed within the beggar’s eager palms; And as she vanished down the linden shade, He bowed his head and for forgiveness prayed.
So the day passed, and when the twilight came He woke to find the chapel all aflame, And, dumb with grateful wonder, to behold Upon the altar candlesticks of gold!
# The Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier/The First Flowers

THE FIRST FLOWERS
For ages, on our river borders, These tassels in their tawny bloom, And willowy studs of downy silver, Have prophesied of Spring to come.
For ages have the unbound waters Smiled on them from their pebbly hem, And the clear carol of the robin And song of bluebird welcomed them.
But never yet from smiling river, Or song of early bird, have they Been greeted with a gladder welcome Than whispers from my heart to-day.
They break the spell of cold and darkness, The weary watch of sleepless pain; And from my heart, as from the river, The ice of winter melts again.
Thanks, Mary! for this wild-wood token Of Freya’s footsteps drawing near; Almost, as in the rune of Asgard, The growing of the grass I hear.
It is as if the pine-trees called me From ceilëd room and silent books, To see the dance of woodland shadows, And hear the song of April brooks!
As in the old Teutonic ballad Of Odenwald live bird and tree, Together live in bloom and music, I blend in song thy flowers and thee.
Earth’s rocky tablets bear forever The dint of rain and small bird’s track: Who knows but that my idle verses May leave some trace by Merrimac!
The bird that trod the mellow layers Of the young earth is sought in vain; The cloud is gone that wove the sandstone, From God’s design, with threads of rain!
So, when this fluid age we live in Shall stiffen round my careless rhyme, Who made the vagrant tracks may puzzle The savants of the coming time;
And, following out their dim suggestions, Some idly-curious hand may draw My doubtful portraiture, as Cuvier Drew fish and bird from fin and claw.
And maidens in the far-off twilights, Singing my words to breeze and stream, Shall wonder if the old-time Mary Were real, or the rhymer’s dream!
# The Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier/The Freed Islands

THE FREED ISLANDS
Written for the anniversary celebration of the first of August, at Milton, 1846. [Originally entitled Lines.]
A few brief years have passed away Since Britain drove her million slaves Beneath the tropic’s fiery ray: God willed their freedom; and to-day Life blooms above those island graves!
He spoke! across the Carib Sea, We heard the clash of breaking chains, And felt the heart-throb of the free, The first strong pulse of liberty Which thrilled along the bondman’s veins.
Though long delayed, and far, and slow, The Briton’s triumph shall be ours: Wears slavery here a prouder brow Than that which twelve short years ago Scowled darkly from her island bowers?
Mighty alike for good or ill With Mother-land, we fully share The Saxon strength, the nerve of steel, The tireless energy of will, The power to do, the pride to dare.
What she has done can we not do? Our hour and men are both at hand; The blast which Freedom’s angel blew O’er her green islands, echoes through Each valley of our forest land.
Hear it, old Europe! we have sworn The death of slavery. When it falls, Look to your vassals in their turn, Your poor dumb millions, crushed and worn, Your prisons and your palace walls!
O kingly mockers! scoffing show What deeds in Freedom’s name we do; Yet know that every taunt ye throw Across the waters, goads our slow Progression towards the right and true.
Not always shall your outraged poor, Appalled by democratic crime, Grind as their fathers ground before; The hour which sees our prison door Swing wide shall be their triumph time.
On then, my brothers! every blow Ye deal is felt the wide earth through; Whatever here uplifts the low Or humbles Freedom’s hateful foe, Blesses the Old World through the New.
Take heart! The promised hour draws near; I hear the downward beat of wings, And Freedom’s trumpet sounding clear: “Joy to the people! woe and fear To new-world tyrants, old-world kings!”
# The Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier/The Friend's Burial

THE FRIEND’S BURIAL
My thoughts are all in yonder town, Where, wept by many tears, To-day my mother’s friend lays down The burden of her years.
True as in life, no poor disguise Of death with her is seen, And on her simple casket lies No wreath of bloom and green.
Oh, not for her the florist’s art, The mocking weeds of woe; Dear memories in each mourner’s heart Like heaven’s white lilies blow.
And all about the softening air Of new-born sweetness tells, And the ungathered May-flowers wear The tints of ocean shells.
The old, assuring miracle Is fresh as heretofore; And earth takes up its parable Of life from death once more.
Here organ-swell and church-bell toll Methinks but discord were; The prayerful silence of the soul Is best befitting her.
No sound should break the quietude Alike of earth and sky; O wandering wind in Seabrook wood, Breathe but a half-heard sigh!
Sing softly, spring-bird, for her sake; And thou not distant sea, Lapse lightly as if Jesus spake, And thou wert Galilee!
For all her quiet life flowed on As meadow streamlets flow, Where fresher green reveals alone The noiseless ways they go.
From her loved place of prayer I see The plain-robed mourners pass,
With slow feet treading reverently The graveyard’s springing grass.
Make room, O mourning ones, for me, Where, like the friends of Paul, That you no more her face shall see You sorrow most of all.
Her path shall brighten more and more Unto the perfect day; She cannot fail of peace who bore Such peace with her away.
O sweet, calm face that seemed to wear The look of sins forgiven! O voice of prayer that seemed to bear Our own needs up to heaven!
How reverent in our midst she stood, Or knelt in grateful praise! What grace of Christian womanhood Was in her household ways!
For still her holy living meant No duty left undone; The heavenly and the human blent Their kindred loves in one.
And if her life small leisure found For feasting ear and eye, And Pleasure, on her daily round, She passed unpausing by,
Yet with her went a secret sense Of all things sweet and fair, And Beauty’s gracious providence Refreshed her unaware.
She kept her line of rectitude With love’s unconscious ease; Her kindly instincts understood All gentle courtesies.
An inborn charm of graciousness Made sweet her smile and tone, And glorified her farm-wife dress With beauty not its own.
The dear Lord’s best interpreters Are humble human souls; The Gospel of a life like hers Is more than books or scrolls.
From scheme and creed the light goes out, The saintly fact survives; The blessed Master none can doubt Revealed in holy lives.
# The Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier/The Fruit-Gift

THE FRUIT-GIFT
Last night, just as the tints of autumn’s sky Of sunset faded from our hills and streams, I sat, vague listening, lapped in twilight dreams, To the leaf’s rustle, and the cricket’s cry. Then, like that basket, flush with summer fruit, Dropped by the angels at the Prophet’s foot, Came, unannounced, a gift of clustered sweetness, Full-orbed, and glowing with the prisoned beams Of summery suns, and rounded to completeness By kisses of the south-wind and the dew. Thrilled with a glad surprise, methought I knew The pleasure of the homeward-turning Jew, When Eshcol’s clusters on his shoulders lay, Dropping their sweetness on his desert way.
I said, “This fruit beseems no world of sin. Its parent vine, rooted in Paradise, O’ercrept the wall, and never paid the price Of the great mischief,—an ambrosial tree, Eden’s exotic, somehow smuggled in, To keep the thorns and thistles company.” Perchance our frail, sad mother plucked in haste A single vine-slip as she passed the gate, Where the dread sword alternate paled and burned, And the stern angel, pitying her fate, Forgave the lovely trespasser, and turned Aside his face of fire; and thus the waste And fallen world hath yet its annual taste Of primal good, to prove of sin the cost, And show by one gleaned ear the mighty harvest lost.
# The Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier/The Frost Spirit

POEMS OF NATURE
THE FROST SPIRIT
He comes,—he comes,—the Frost Spirit comes! You may trace his footsteps now On the naked woods and the blasted fields and the brown hill’s withered brow. He has smitten the leaves of the gray old trees where their pleasant green came forth, And the winds, which follow wherever he goes, have shaken them down to earth.
He comes,—he comes,—the Frost Spirit comes! from the frozen Labrador, From the icy bridge of the Northern seas, which the white bear wanders o’er, Where the fisherman’s sail is stiff with ice, and the luckless forms below In the sunless cold of the lingering night into marble statues grow!
He comes,—he comes,—the Frost Spirit comes! on the rushing Northern blast, And the dark Norwegian pines have bowed as his fearful breath went past. With an unscorched wing he has hurried on, where the fires of Hecla glow On the darkly beautiful sky above and the ancient ice below.
He comes,—he comes,—the Frost Spirit comes! and the quiet lake shall feel The torpid touch of his glazing breath, and ring to the skater’s heel; And the streams which danced on the broken rocks, or sang to the leaning grass, Shall bow again to their winter chain, and in mournful silence pass.
He comes,—he comes,—the Frost Spirit comes! Let us meet him as we may, And turn with the light of the parlor-fire his evil power away; And gather closer the circle round, when that firelight dances high, And laugh at the shriek of the baffled Fiend as his sounding wing goes by!
# The Booke of Thenseygnementes and Techynge that the Knyght of the Towre made to his Doughters/Chapter 15

OF HER THAT ETE THE EELE AND PLUMED HER PYE.
SHALLE telle to yow an Ensample herof vpon the fayt of wymmen that ete the good morsels behynde theyr husbondes. There was a damoyselle that had a pye in a cage, whiche spak and said all that she sawe. And it happed that the lord of the hows made to kepe a grete Ele in a tronke in a ponde. And he kepte it moche derworthely, for to gyue it to som good lord of his, or to somme frende, yf they come to see hym. And it happed that the lady saide to the Chamberere that it were good to ete the grete ele. And they thought that they wold saye to theyr lord that theues had eten hym. And when the lord cam home, the Pye began to telle and saye to hymn, "My lady hath eten the Ele." And when the lord herd this, he wente to his ponde, and fonde not his ele, and cam home to his wyf and demaunded her what was befallen of his ele. And she supposed to haue excused her. And he said that he was acerteyned thereof, and that the pye had tolde hym. And in the hous therfore was grete sorowe and noyse. But when the lord was gone oute, the lady and the chamberere cam to the pye and plucked of alle the fethers of his hede, sayeng, "Thou hast disccuered vs of the ele," and thus was the poure pye plumed, and lost the fethers of his hede. But fro than forthon, yf ony man cam in to that hows that was balled or fylled or had an hyhe forhede, the pye wolde saye to them, "Ye haue told my lord of the ele." And therfore this is a good ensample, that no good woman sholde not ete for hir lycorousnes the swete or deynte morsels withoute the wytynge of her husböd, but yf she emploed it well with honoure. This damoysell was after moche scorned & mocked for that ele by cause of the pye that so ofte remembryd it to suche as cam thyder so ballyd or pylled.
# The Booke of Thenseygnementes and Techynge that the Knyght of the Towre made to his Doughters/Chapter 2

HOW THE MATYNS AND HOURES OUGHT TO BE SAID.
ND bycause that the fyrst werke and labour that man or woman ought to doo is for to adoure and worshipe oure lord and saye his seruyse; that is to understāde, that as soone as he awaketh he ought to knowleche hym for his lord and maker, and hym self to be his creature; that is to wete, to say his matyns, houres, and his orysons, yf he be a clerk, and to rendre and yelde to hym thankynges and preysynges, as to say, laudate dominū omnes gentes, Benedicamus patrem et filium cum sancto spiritu, or suche other thynges as yelde and gyue thankynges & preysynges vnto god. For it is a gretter thyng to thanke and blysse oure lord god than to requyre & demaunde him. For requeste demaunde yefte of guerdon; & thankynges and to yelde preysynges is thoffyce of angels, whiche alwey gyue thankynges, honoure, and preysyng vnto god. For it is better to thanke god than to requyre hym, by cause he knoweth better what is good for a man or a woman than they wote them self. After, we ought to praye for them that ben dede to fore we goo to slepe, and also the dede men praye for them that praye for hem. And also forgete not the blessid and swete Vyrgyne Marye, whiche nyght and day prayeth for vs, and also to recommaunde yow to the hooly sayntes of heuen. And when this is done, thenne maye ye well goo slepe, for this ought to be done as ofte as ye awake.
# The Booke of Thenseygnementes and Techynge that the Knyght of the Towre made to his Doughters/Chapter 20

HOW ME OUGHT NOT TO STRYUE AYENST THEM THAT BEN LANGAGEURS AND FULL OF WORDES.
AYRE doughters, I shall saye to yow an Ensample, how it is peryllous to speke and holde stryf to peple that have the world in their hande and that haue manere and wytte to speke. For gladly men ne wynne but lytel to holde stryf of bourdes and japes to suche men. For it happed at a grete feste where as were many grete ladyes and lordes, and that ther was the marchal of Clermōt, whiche merueiloussly had the world in honde as of fayre spekyng and lyeng subtylly, and to knowe hym self and his beyng among alle knyghtes and ladyes. So thenne ther was one lady that said to hym to fore alle the peple, "Clermont, in good faythe ye ought to gyue grete guerdon vnto god. For ye be a good knyght and semely ynough, and ye knowe many and conne many merueyles, and were parfite ynough yf your mockyng ne were and youre euyll tonge, whiche somtyme can not be stylle." "Now, Madame, is this the worst tatche that I have?" She sayd "Ye." "Now see we thenne in this poynt, as me semeth, for to juge rightfully that I have not so euylle a tonge as ye. And I shalle saye yow wherfore. Ye have me repreuyd and tolde me the worst tatche that I haue, after youre aduys, and I have not said the worst tatche that I knowe in yow. What wrong haue I doo thenne? Madame, I am not so swyfte of my speche as ye are." The lady helde her pees thenne, and wold that she had not stryuen ne spoken to hym, for dyuerse causes whiche I reherce not, as I have herd recounted that it was ynough spoken. And somme said that it had better for her to have ben stylle. And therfore this is a good Ensample, for it is better somtyme to be stylle and saye no thynge than to be ouer apperte and begynne wordes to such men as haue their ​wordes redy at hand, and that haue no shame to saye double wordes hauyng dyuerse ententes. And therfore take ye heede to whome ye enterpryse to speke, and beware that ye saye no thyng to theyr displaisire, for for to stryue is moche peryllous.