OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# The Book of American Negro Poetry/When Ol' Sis' Judy Pray

WHEN OL' SIS' JUDY PRAY
When ol' Sis' Judy pray,
De teahs come stealin' down my cheek,
De voice ur God widin me speak';
I see myse'f so po' an' weak,
Down on my knees de cross I seek,
When ol' Sis' Judy pray.
When ol' Sis' Judy pray,
De thun'ers ur Mount Sin-a-i
Comes rushin' down f um up on high—
De Debbil tu'n his back an' fly
While sinnahs loud fur pa'don cry,
When ol' Sis' Judy pray.
When ol' Sis' Judy pray,
Ha'd sinnahs trimble in dey seat
Ter hyuh huh voice in sorro 'peat:
(While all de chu'ch des sob an' weep)
"O Shepa'd, dese, dy po' los' sheep!"
When ol' Sis' Judy pray.
When ol' Sis' Judy pray,
De whole house hit des rock an' moan
Ter see huh teahs an' hyuh huh groan;
Dar's somepin' in Sis' Judy's tone
Dat melt all ha'ts dough med ur stone
When ol' Sis' Judy pray.
When ol' Sis' Judy pray,
Salvation's light comes pourin' down—
Hit fill de chu'ch an' all de tow —
Why, angels' robes go rustlin' 'roun',
An' hebben on de Yurf am foun',
When ol' Sis' Judy pray.
When ol' Sis' Judy pray.
My soul go sweepin' up on wings,
An' loud de chu'ch wid "Glory!" rings,
An' wide de gates ur Jahsper swings
Twel you hyuh ha'ps wid golding strings,
When ol' Sis' Judy pray.
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# The Book of American Negro Poetry/Winter Is Coming

WINTER IS COMING
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# The Book of American Negro Poetry/Zalka Peetruza

ZALKA PEETRUZA
(Who Was Christened Lucy Jane)
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# The Book of Scottish Song/Scotland and Charlie 1

Scotland and Charlie.
[Written and arranged by George Linley.]
Sons of the mountain glen, Draw forth your blades again, Loudly the pibroch's strain Summons to glory. Wild as the breezes blow, Rush ye to meet the foe, Onward and boldly go, Fame lies before ye.
In every bonnet's seen Eagle's plume, waving 'tween Sprigs of the heather green, Blooming so fairly. Forward then, forward then, Sons of the mountain glen, Be your war cry again— Scotland and Charlie.
Who would shrink from thee, Land of the brave and free? Who tamely bend the knee To an invader? Who that with sword and might Would not for freedom fight, And die for Scotland's right, Ere he betray'd her?
Forward then, forward then, Sons of the mountain glen, See! the white rose again Blooming so fairly. Follow then, follow then, Bonnie brave Highlandmen, Be your war cry again— Scotland and Charlie.
# The Book of Scottish Song/Sandyford Ha'

Sandyford Ha'.
[Andrew Park.—Air, "Laird o' Cockpen."]
Ye'll a' get a bidding to Sandyford ha', Ye'll a' get a bidding to Sandyford ha'; When summer returns wi' her blossoms sae traw, Ye'll a' get a bidding to Sandyford ha'.
This dwelling though humble is airy and clean, Wi' a hale hearty wifie baith honest and bien, An' a big room below for the gentry that ca',— Ye'll a' get a bidding to Sandyford ha'. A wooden stair leads to the attics aboon, Whar ane can look out to his friends in the moon, Or rhyme till saft sleep on his eyelids shall fa',— Ye'll a' get a bidding to Sandyford ha'.
An' when a lang day o' dark care we ha'e closed, An' our heart wi' the bitter ingredient is dozed, We'll puff our Havana, on hope we will ca', An' our chief guest be pleasure at Sandyford ha'. Ye'll no need to ask me to sing you a sang, For the wee thochtless birdies lilt a' the day lang; The lintie, the laverock, the blackbird an' a', Ilk' day ha'e a concert at Sandyford ha'.
There's palace-like mansions at which ye may stare, Where Luxury rolls in her saft easy-chair,— At least puir folks think sae,—their knowledge is sma', There's far mair contentment at Sandyford ha'. There's something romantic about an auld house, Where the cock ilka morning keeps crawing fu' crouse, An' the kye in the byre are baith sleekit an' braw, An' such is the case at blythe Sandyford ha'.
In the garden we'll sit 'neath the big beechen tree, As the sun dips his bright-burnish'd face in the sea, Till night her grey mantle around us shall draw, Then we'll a' be fu' cantie in Sandyford ha'. At morning when music is loud in the sky, An' dew, like bright pearls, on roses' lips lie, We'll saunter in joy where the lang shadows £a', 'Mang the sweet-scented groves around Sandyford ha'.
# The Book of Scottish Song/Scotia's Sons

Scotia's Sons.
[Written by a journeyman cabinet-maker in Glasgow of the name of Daniel M'Phail, author of several other convivial and patriotic songs, particularly one beginning, "Happy we've been a' thegither," and another entitled "The twa-score and twa," both of which will be found further on in the present collection. M'Phail was unfortunate in life, and died in distressed circumstances about the year 1833. He was a native, we understand, of Port-Glasgow, though long resident in the parent city.—Tune, "Andro and his cutty gun."]
Blythe, blythe, around the nappie, Let us join in social glee; While we're here we'll ha'e a drappie— Scotia's sons ha'e aye been free.
Our auld forbears, when ower their yill, And cantie bickers round did ca'. Forsooth, they cried, anither gill! For sweirt we are to gang awa'.
Some hearty cock wad then ha'e sung An auld Scotch sonnet aff wi' glee, Syne pledged his cogue: the chorus rung, Auld Scotia and her sons are free.
Thus cracks, and jokes, and sangs gaed roun', Till morn the screens o' light did draw: Yet, dreich to rise, the carles roun' Cried, Deoch an doras, then awa'!
The landlord then the nappie brings, And toasts, Fu' happy a' may be. Syne tooms the cogue: the chorus rings, Auld Scotia's sons shall aye be free. ​Then like our dads o' auld lang syne, Let social glee unite us a', Aye blythe to meet, our mou's to weet, But aye as sweirt to gang awa'.
# The Book of Scottish Song/Scotland

Scotland.
[Thomas Smibert.]
The hills of my country are mantled with snow, Yet, oh! I but love them the more; More noble they seem in the sun's setting glow, Than all that the vales of the Southron can show, When gay with the summer's whole store.
Tho' brighter the landscape, and blander the air, In climes that look straight to the sun, The dearest enjoyments of home are not there, The chat and the laugh by the hearth's cheering glare, When day and its labours are done.
And thus, like the snow-cover'd hills of their land, Its sons may seem rugged and rude, Yet gentler in heart is each man of the band, More kindly in feeling, more open in hand, Than all whom the tropics include.
# The Book of Scottish Song/Scornfu' Nancy

Scornfu' Nancy.
[This humorous and once popular song appears in the first edition of the Orpheus Caledonius, along with the music, in 1725. It is, however, of much earlier date, as Ramsay, in his Miscellany, marks it as one, even in his day, of an unknown age. Gay, the poet, selected the air (which goes by the name of Nancy's to the greenwood gane,) for one of his songs, beginning,
"In war we'e nought but death to fear."]
Nancy's to the greenwood gane, To hear the gowdspink chatt'ring, And Willie he has follow'd her, To gain her love by flatt'ring: But a' that he could say or do, She geck'd and scorned at him; And aye when he began to woo, She bade him mind wha gat him.
What ails you at my dad, quoth he, My minny, or my auntie? With crowdy-mowdy they fed me, Langkale and ranty-tanty: With bannocks of good barley-meal, Of thae there was right plenty, With chapped stocks fu' butter'd weel; And was not that right dainty?
Although my father was nae laird, ('Tis daffin to be vaunty,) He keepit aye a good kale yard, A ha'-house, and a pantry; A guid blue-bonnet on his head, An o'erlay 'bout his craigie; And aye until the day he died He rade on guid shanks-naigie.
Now wae and wonder on your snout, Wad ye ha'e bonnie Nancy? Wad ye compare yoursel' to me, A docken to a pansie? I ha'e a wooer o' my ain, They ca' him souple Sandy, And weel I wat his bonnie mou' Is sweet like sugar-candy.
Wow, Nancy, what needs a' this din? Do I no ken this Sandy? I'm sure the chief o' a' his kin Was Rab the beggar randy; His minny Meg upo' her back Bare baith him and his billy; Will ye compare a nasty pack To me, your winsome Willie?
My gutcher left a good braidsword, Though it be auld and rusty, Yet ye may tak' it on my word, It is baith stout and trusty; And if I can but get it drawn, Which will be right uneasy, I shall lay baith my lugs in pawn, That he shall get a heezy.
Then Nancy turn'd her round about, And said, Did Sandy hear ye, Ye wadna miss to get a clout; I ken he disna fear you: Sae haud your tongue and say nae mair, Set somewhere else your fancy; For as lang's Sandy's to the fore, Ye never shall get Nancy.
# The Book of Scottish Song/Saw ye nae my Peggy

Saw ye nae my Peggy.
[This song, though old, was not inserted in any regular collection of Scottish songs till that of David Herd in 1769. "There is another set of the words," says Burns, "much older still, and which I take to be the original one, as follows—a song familiar from the cradle to every Scottish ear:
Saw ye my Maggie, Saw ye my Maggie, Saw ye my Maggie, Linkin ower the lea?
High-kiltit was she, High-kiltit was she, High-kiltit was she, Her coat aboon her knee.
What mark has your Maggie, What mark has your Maggie, What mark has your Maggie, That ane may ken her be? (by).
Though it by no means follows that the silliest verses to an air must, for that reason, be the original song, yet I take this ballad, of which I have quoted part, to be the old verses. The two songs in Ramsay, one of them evidently his own, are never to be met with in the fire-side circle of our peasantry; while that which I take to be the old song is in every shepherd's mouth."]
Saw ye nae my Peggy, Saw ye nae my Peggy, Saw ye nae my Peggy, Coming ower the lea? Sure a finer creature Ne'er was formed by Nature, So complete each feature, So divine is she! ​O! how Peggy charms me: Every look still warms me; Every thought alarms me; Lest she lo'e nae me. Peggy doth discover Nought but charms all over: Nature bids me love her; That's a law to me.
Who would leave a lover, To become a rover? No, I'll ne'er give over, Till I happy be. For since love inspires me, As her beauty fires me, And her absence tires me, Nought can please but she.
When I hope to gain her, Fate seems to detain her; Could I but obtain her, Happy would I be! I'll lie down before her, Bless, sigh, and adore her, With faint looks implore her, Till she pity me.
# The Book of Scottish Song/Say not the Bard

Say not the Bard.
[W. M'Laren.—First printed in "The Harp of Renfrewshire."]
Though the winter of age wreathes her snow on his head, And the blooming effulgence of summer is fled, Though the voice that was sweet, as the harp's softest string, Be trem'lous, and low as the zephyrs of spring, Yet say not the Bard has turned old. ​Though the casket that holds the rich jewel we prize, Attracts not the gaze of inquisitive eyes; Yet the gem that's within may be lovely and bright, As the smiles of the morn or the stars of the night, Then say not the Bard has turned old.
When the tapers burn clear and the goblet shines bright, In the hall of his chief on a festival night, I have smiled at the glance of his rapturous eye, While the brim of the goblet laugh'd back in reply; Then say not the Bard has turned old.
When he sings of the valorous deeds that were done, By his clan or his chief in the days that are gone, His strains then are various—now rapid—now slow, As he mourns for the dead or exults o'er the foe; Then say not the Bard has turned old.
When summer in gaudy profusion is dress'd, And the dew-drop hangs clear on the violet's breast, I list with delight to his rapturous strain, While the borrowing echo returns it again; Then say not the Bard has turned old.
But not summer's profusion alone can inspire His soul in the song, or his hand on the lyre, But rapid his numbers, and wilder they flow, When the wintry winds rave o'er the mountains of snow; Then say not the Bard has turned old.
I have seen him elated when the black clouds were riven, Terrific and wild by the thunder of heaven, And smile at the billows that angrily rave, Incessant and deep o'er the mariner's grave; Then say not the Bard has turned old.
When the eye that expresses the warmth of his heart, Shall fail the benevolent wish to impart,— When his blood shall be cold as the wintr'y wave, And silent his harp as the gloom of the grave,— Then say that the Bard has turned old.
# The Book of Scottish Song/Scotland's Hills

Scotland's Hills.
[First published in the Edinburgh Literary Gazette. Set to Music by R. A. Smith.]
Oh! these are not my country's hills, Though they look bright and fair; Though flowers deck their verdant sides, The heather blooms not there. Let me behold the mountains steep, And wild deer roaming free, The heathy glen, the ravine deep: Oh, Scotland's hills for me!
The rose through all this garden land, May shed its rich perfume; But I would rather wander 'mong, My country's bonnie broom. There sings the shepherd on the hill, The ploughman on the lea; There lives my blythesome mountain maid: Oh, Scotland's hills for me!
In southern climes the radiant sun A brighter light displays; But I love best his milder beams That shine on Scotland's braes. Then, dear romantic native land, If e'er I roam from thee, I'll ne'er forget the cheering lay, Oh, Scotland's hills for me!
# The Book of Scottish Song/Scotland and Charlie 2

Scotland and Charlie.
[Music arranged by R. A. Smith. At page 326 will be found another song with the same fantastic title.]
O wha's for Scotland and Charlie? O wha's for Scotland and Charlie? He's come o'er the sea To his ain countrie; Now wha's for Scotland and Charlie? Awa', awa', auld carlie, Awa', awa', auld carlie, Gi'e Charlie his crown, And let him sit down, Whare ye've been sae lang, auld carlie.
It's up in the morning early, It's up in the morning early; The bonnie white rose; The plaid and the hose, Are on for Scotland and Charlie.
The swords are drawn now fairly, The swords are drawn now fairly, The swords they are drawn, And the pipes they ha'e blawn A pibroch for Scotland and Charlie.
The flags are fleein' fu' rarely, The flags are fleein' fu' rarely, And Charlie's awa' To see his ain ha', And to bang his faes right sairly. Then wha's for Scotland and Charlie? O wha's for Scotland and Charlie? He's come o'er the sea To his ain countrie; Then wha's for Scotland and Charlie?
# The Book of Scottish Song/Scotland dear

Scotland dear.
[Alexander Hume.—Here first printed.—Air, "Gala Water."]
My mountain hame, my mountain hame, My kind, my independent mother! While thought an' feeling rule my frame, Can I forget the mountain heather? Scotland dear!
Though I to other lands may go, Should fortune's smile attend me thither, As robin comes in winter's snaw I'll homeward seek the mountain heather, Scotland dear!
I love to hear your daughters dear The simple tale in sang revealing; Whene'er your music greets my ear, My bosom melts wi' joyous feeling, Scotland dear!
When I shall die, O I wad lie Where life an' me first met thegither, That my cauld clay, through its decay, Might bloom again in the mountain heather, Scotland dear!
# The Bird Book/Waxwings

WAXWINGS. Eamily AMPELID^E
0'18. BOHEMIAN WAXWING. Bombyeilla gar ruins
Range. Breeds in the Arctic regions except in the Rockies where it nearly reaches the United States ; winters south to the northern tier of states.
This handsome crested, grayish brown Waxwing resembles the common Cedar Waxwing but is larger (length 8 inches), has a black throat, much white and yellow on the wing and a yellow tip to tail. Their nests are made of rootlets, grass and moss, and situated in trees usually at a low elevation. The eggs resemble those of the Cedar-bird, but are larger and the marking more blotchy with indistinct edges ; dull bluish blotched with blackish brown; size .95 x .70. Data. Great Slave Lake, June 23, 1884. Nest in a willow 8 feet from the ground. Collected for Josiah Hooper. (Crandall collection).
Dull bluish
Bohemian Waxwing
(J19- CEDAR WAXWING. Bombyeilla cedrorum.
Range. Whole of temperate North America, breeding in the northern half of the United States and northward.
These birds are very gregarious and go in large flocks during the greater
part of the year, splitting up into smaller companies during the breeding season and nesting in orchards or groves and in any kind of tree either in an upright crotch or on a horizontal bough; the nests are made of grasses, strips of bark, moss, string, etc., and are often quite bulky. Their eggs are of a dull grayish blue color sharply speckled with blackish brown; size .85 x .60. Data. Old Saybrook, Conn., June 22, 1900. Nest composed of cinquefoil vines, grasses, wool and cottony substances ; situated on an apple tree branch about 10 feet from the ground. Collector, John N. Clark. This species has a special fondness for cherries, both wild and cultivated, and they are often known as Cherry-birds. They also feed upon various berries, and frequently catch insects in the air after the manner of Flycatchers. Their only notes are a strange Cedar Waxwing lisping sound often barely audible.
m
375
THE BIRD BOOK
620. PHAINOPEPLA. Phainopepla nitens
Range. Southwestern United States and Mexico; north to southern Utah and Colorado.
This peculiar crested species is wholly shining blue black except for a patch of white on the inner webs of the primaries. Their habits are somewhat like those of the Cedar-bird, they being restless, and feeding upon berries or insects, catching the latter in the air. They make loosely constructed nests of twigs, mosses, plant Light gray fibres, etc., placed on branches of trees, usually below 20 feet from the ground, in thickets or open woods near water, the eggs are two or three in number, light gray, spotted sharply with black; size .88 x .65. Data. Pasadena, Cal., July 15, 1894. Nest in an oak 10 feet up; composed of weeds and string. Collector, Horace Gaylord.
# The Cathedral

* Search for titles containing or beginning with: "The Cathedral."
* sister projects: 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.
* The Cathedral, a novel by Joris-Karl Huysmans
* The Cathedral by James Russell Lowell
* "The Cathedral", a poem by William Goodman Shakespeare
* The Cathedral by Hugh Walpole
* The Cathedral by Florence Wilkinson
# The Cathedral (Huysmans)

First published in France in 1898; first English edition in 1898.
Table of Contents:
* Chapter I
* Chapter II
* Chapter III
* Chapter IV
* Chapter V
* Chapter VI
* Chapter VII
* Chapter VIII
* Chapter IX
* Chapter X
* Chapter XI
* Chapter XII
* Chapter XIII
* Chapter XIV
* Chapter XV
* Chapter XVI
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 Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier/Freedom in Brazil

FREEDOM IN BRAZIL
With clearer light, Cross of the South, shine forth In blue Brazilian skies; And thou, O river, cleaving half the earth From sunset to sunrise, From the great mountains to the Atlantic waves Thy joy’s long anthem pour. Yet a few years (God make them less!) and slaves Shall shame thy pride no more. No fettered feet thy shaded margins press; But all men shall walk free Where thou, the high-priest of the wilderness, Hast wedded sea to sea.
And thou, great-hearted ruler, through whose mouth The word of God is said, Once more, “Let there be light!”—Son of the South, Lift up thy honored head, Wear unashamed a crown by thy desert More than by birth thy own, Careless of watch and ward; thou art begirt By grateful hearts alone. The moated wall and battle-ship may fail, But safe shall justice prove; Stronger than greaves of brass or iron mail The panoply of love.
Crowned doubly by man’s blessing and God’s grace, Thy future is secure; Who frees a people makes his statue’s place In Time’s Valhalla sure. Lo! from his Neva’s banks the Scythian Czar Stretches to thee his hand, Who, with the pencil of the Northern star, Wrote freedom on his land. And he whose grave is holy by our calm And prairied Sangamon, From his gaunt hand shall drop the martyr’s palm To greet thee with “Well done!”
And thou, O Earth, with smiles thy face make sweet, And let thy wail be stilled, To hear the Muse of prophecy repeat Her promise half fulfilled. The Voice that spake at Nazareth speaks still, No sound thereof hath died; Alike thy hope and Heaven’s eternal will Shall yet be satisfied. The years are slow, the vision tarrieth long, And far the end may be; But, one by one, the fiends of ancient wrong Go out and leave thee free.
# The Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier/Extract from A New England Legend

EXTRACT FROM “A NEW ENGLAND LEGEND”
Originally a part of the author’s Moll Pitcher.
How has New England’s romance fled, Even as a vision of the morning! Its rites foredone, its guardians dead, Its priestesses, bereft of dread, Waking the veriest urchin’s scorning! Gone like the Indian wizard’s yell And fire-dance round the magic rock, Forgotten like the Druid’s spell At moonrise by his holy oak! No more along the shadowy glen Glide the dim ghosts of murdered men; No more the unquiet churchyard dead Glimpse upward from their turfy bed, Startling the traveller, late and lone; As, on some night of starless weather, They silently commune together, Each sitting on his own head-stone! The roofless house, decayed, deserted, Its living tenants all departed, No longer rings with midnight revel Of witch, or ghost, or goblin evil; No pale blue flame sends out its flashes Through creviced roof and shattered sashes! The witch-grass round the hazel spring May sharply to the night-air sing, But there no more shall withered hags Refresh at ease their broomstick nags, Or taste those hazel-shadowed waters As beverage meet for Satan’s daughters; No more their mimic tones be heard, The mew of cat, the chirp of bird, Shrill blending with the hoarser laughter Of the fell demon following after! The cautious goodman nails no more A horseshoe on his outer door, Lest some unseemly hag should fit To his own mouth her bridle-bit; The goodwife’s churn no more refuses Its wonted culinary uses Until, with heated needle burned, The witch has to her place returned! Our witches are no longer old And wrinkled beldames, Satan-sold, But young and gay and laughing creatures, With the heart’s sunshine on their features; Their sorcery—the light which dances Where the raised lid imveils its glances; Or that low-breathed and gentle tone, The music of Love’s twilight hours, Soft, dream-like, as a fairy’s moan Above her nightly closing flowers, Sweeter than that which sighed of yore Along the charmed Ausonian shore! Even she, our own weird heroine, Sole Pythoness of ancient Lynn, Sleeps calmly where the living laid her; And the wide realm of sorcery, Left by its latest mistress free, Hath found no gray and skilled invader. So perished Albion’s “glammarye,” With him in Melrose Abbey sleeping, His charmëd torch beside his knee, That even the dead himself might see The magic scroll within his keeping. And now our modern Yankee sees Nor omens, spells, nor mysteries; And naught above, below, around, Of life or death, of sight or sound, Whate’er its nature, form, or look, Excites his terror or surprise,— All seeming to his knowing eyes Familiar as his “catechise,” Or “Webster’s Spelling-Book.”