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Hands-On GUI Programming with C++ and Qt5

Build stunning cross-platform applications and widgets with the most

powerful GUI framework

Lee Zhi Eng

BIRMINGHAM - MUMBAI
Hands-On GUI Programming
with C++ and Qt5
Copyright © 2018 Packt Publishing

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or
transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the
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Contributors
About the author
Lee Zhi Eng is a self-taught programmer who has worked as an
artist and programmer at several game studios before becoming a
part-time lecturer for 2 years at a university, teaching game
development subjects related to Unity and Unreal Engine.

He has not only taken part in various projects related to games,

interactive apps, and virtual reality, but has also participated in
multiple projects that are more oriented toward software and system
development. When he is not writing code, he enjoys traveling,
photography, and exploring new technologies.
About the reviewer
Nibedit Dey is a technopreneur with multidisciplinary technology
background. He holds a bachelor's degree in biomedical engineering
and a master's degree in digital design and embedded systems.
Before starting his entrepreneurial journey, he worked for L&T and
Tektronix for several years in different R&D roles. He has been using
Qt to build complex software products for the past 8 years.
Currently, he is a healthcare innovation fellow at IIT, Hyderabad, and
is involved in the development of a new medical device.
Packt is searching for authors
like you
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright and Credits
Hands-On GUI Programming with C++ and
Qt5
Packt Upsell
Why subscribe?
PacktPub.com
Contributors
About the author
About the reviewer
Packt is searching for authors like you
Preface
Who this book is for
What this book covers
To get the most out of this book
Download the example code files
Download the color images
Conventions used
Get in touch
Reviews

1. Introduction to Qt
What is Qt?
 Why use Qt?
Discovering tools in Qt
Qt Designer
Qt Quick Designer
Downloading and installing Qt
Setting up the working environment
Running our first Hello World Qt program
Summary

2. Qt Widgets and Style Sheets

Introduction to Qt Designer
Basic Qt widgets
Qt Style Sheets
Summary

3. Database Connection
Introducing the MySQL database system
Setting up the MySQL database
SQL commands
SELECT
INSERT
UPDATE
DELETE
JOIN
Database connection in Qt
Creating our functional login page
 Summary

4. Graphs and Charts

Types of charts and graphs in Qt
Line and spline charts
Bar charts
Pie charts
Polar charts
Area and scatter charts
Box-and-whiskers charts
Candlestick charts
Implementing charts and graphs
Creating the dashboard page
Summary

5. Item Views and Dialogs

Working with item view widgets
Creating our Qt Widgets application
Making our List Widget functional
Adding functionality to the Tree Widget
Finally, our Table Widget
Working with dialog boxes
Creating File Selection Dialogs
Image scaling and cropping
Summary

6. Integrating Web Content

Other documents randomly have
different content
 Triste com’ á mesma noite,
Farto de dolor o peito,
Pídolle á Dios que me mate,
Porque xa vivir non quero.

Mais en tanto no me mata,

Castellanos qu’ aborreço,
Hei, para vergonza vosa,
Héivos de cantar xemendo:

¡Castellanos de Castilla,
Tratade ben ôs gallegos:
Cando van, van como rosas,
Cando vén, vén como negros!
 LA GAITA GALLEGA
—
ECO NACIONAL
Á mi querido amigo D. Manuel Murguía.

Cuando la gaita gallega

El pobre gaitero toca,
No sé lo que me sucede
Que el llanto á mis ojos brota.
Ver me figuro á Galicia
Bella, pensativa y sola,
Como amada sin su amado,
Como reina sin corona.
Y aunque alegre danza entone
Y dance la turba loca,
La voz del grave instrumento
Suéname tan melancólica,
Á mi alma revela tantas
Desdichas, penas tan hondas,
Que no sé deciros
Si canta ó si llora.
 II

Recuérdame aquellos cielos,

Y aquellas dulces auroras,
Y aquellas verdes campiñas,
Y el arrullo de sus tórtolas;
Y aquellos lagos, y aquellas
Montañas que al cielo tocan,
Todas llenas de perfumes,
Vestidas de flores todas,
Donde Dios abre su mano
Y sus tesoros agota;
Mas ¡ay!, como me recuerda
También que hay allí quien dobla,
En medio de la abundancia,
Al hambre la frente torva,
No acierto á deciros
Si canta ó si llora.

III

Suenan, y cruzan por mi espíritu

Puras, risueñas y hermosas
Las sombras de los cien puertos
De que Galicia es señora.
Y lentamente pasando,
Como ciudades que flotan,
Van sus cien naves soberbias
Al ronco son de las olas;
Mas ¡ay!, como en ellas veo,
Con el oro de sus costas,
Sus tiernos hijos desnudos
Que miran tristes á Europa,
Pidiendo su pan amargo
Á la América remota,
No acierto á deciros
Si canta ó si llora.

IV
¡Pobre Galicia!... Tus hijos
Huyen de ti ó te los roban,
Llenando de íntima pena
Tus entrañas amorosas.
Y como á parias malditos,
Y como á tribus de ilotas
Que llevasen en el rostro
Sello de infamia ó deshonra,
¡Ay!, la patria los olvida,
La patria los abandona,
Y la miseria y la muerte
En su hogar desierto moran.
Por eso aunque en son de fiesta
La gaita gallega se oiga,
No acierto á deciros
Si canta ó si llora.

V
 ¡Espera, Galicia, espera!
Lleva la cruz que te agobia,
Regando con sangre y lágrimas
Esa vía dolorosa.
¡Tendrás sed!... Hiel y vinagre
Te darán con mano pródiga,
Y con corona de espinas,
Cetro de caña por mofa;
Pero los tiempos se acercan,
Y cuando suene tu hora,
Feliz subirás y grande
Á la cumbre de la gloria.
Hoy si la gaita gallega
El pobre gaitero toca,
No acierto á deciros
Si canta ó si llora.

Ventura Ruiz Aguilera.

1860.
 Á GAITA GALLEGA
—
RESPOSTA
Á ó eminente poeta D. Ventura Ruiz de Aguilera.

Cand’ este cantar, poeta,

Na lira xemendo entonas,
Non sei ó que por min pasa
Qu’ as lagrimiñas m’ afogan,
Qu’ ante de min cruzar vexo
Á virxen-mártir qu’ invocas,
C’ ôs pes cravados d’ espiñas
C’ âs mans cubertas de rosas.
En vano á gaita tocando
Unh’ alborada de groria
Sóns pó-los aires espalla
Que cân nas tembrantes ondas;
En vano baila contenta
Nas eiras á turba louca,
Qu’ aqueles sóns, tal m’ afrixen,
Cousas tan tristes me contan,
Qu’ eu podo decirche
Non canta, que chora.

II
Vexo contigo estos ceos,
Vexo estas brancas auroras,
Vexo estes campos froridos
Donde s’ arrullan as pombas,
Y estas montañas xigantes
Qu’ aló c’ âs nubes se tocan
Cubertas de verdes pinos
E de froliñas cheirosas;
Vexo esta terra bendita
Dond’ ó ben de Dios rebota
E dond’ anxiños hermosos
Tecen brillantes coroas;
Mas ¡ay!, como tamén vexo
Pasar macilentas sombras
Grilos de ferro arrastrando
Antre sorrisas de mofa,
Anque mimosa gaitiña
Toqu’ alborada de groria,
Eu podo decirche
Non canta, que chora.

III

Falas, y ó meu pensamento

Mira pasar temerosas
As sombras d’ eses cen portos
Qu’ ô pe d’ as ondiñas moran.
E pouco á pouco marchando
Fráxiles, tristes e soyas,
Vagar as naves soberbas
Aló nunha mar traidora.
Y ¡ay!, como nélas navegan
Os fillos d’ as nosas costas
Con rumbo á América infanda
Qu’ á morte c’ o pan lles dona,
Desnudos pedindo en vano
Á patria misericordia,
Anque contenta á gaitiña
O probe gaitero toca,
Eu podo decirche
Non canta, que chora.

IV
Probe Galicia, non debes
Chamarte nunca española,
Qu’ España de ti s’ olvida
Cando eres, ¡ay!, tan hermosa.
Cal si na infamia naceras,
Torpe, de ti s’ avergonza,
Y á nay qu’ un fillo despreça
Nay sin coraçón se noma.
Naide por que te levantes
Ch’ alarga á man bondadosa;
Naide os teus prantos enxuga,
Y homilde choras e choras.
Galicia, ti non tés patria,
Ti vives no mundo soya,
Y á prole fecunda tua
S’ espalla en errantes hordas,
Mentras trist’ e solitaria
Tendida na verde alfombra
O mar esperanzas pides,
De Dios á esperanza imploras.
Por eso anqu’ en son de festa
Alegre á gaitiña s’ oya,
Eu podo decirche
Non canta, que chora.

V
«Espera, Galicia, espera»
¡Cánto este grito consola!
Páguecho Dios, bon poeta,
Mais é unha esperanza louca;
Qu’ antes de qu’ os tempos cheguen
De dicha tan venturosa,
Antes que Galicia suba
C’ á cruz qu’ ó seu lombo agobia
Aquel difícil camiño
Qu’ ô pé d’ os abismos toca,
Quisáis cansada e sedenta,
Quisáis que d’ angustias morra.
Págueche Dios, bon poeta,
Esa esperanza de groria,
Que de teu peito surxindo,
Á virxen-mártir coroa,
Y esta á recompensa sea
D’ amargas penas tan fondas.
Páguech’ este cantar triste
Qu’ as nosas tristezas conta,
Que soyo ti..., ¡ti entre tantos!,
D’ as nosas magoas s’ acorda.
¡Dina voluntad d’ un xenio,
Alma pura e xenerosa!
E cando á gaita gallega
Aló nas Castillas oyas,
O teu coraçón pergunta,
Verás que che di en reposta
Qu’ a gaita gallega
Non canta, que chora.
 XXIX

—Vente, rapasa,
Vente, meniña,
Vent’ á lavar
No pilón d’ á fontiña.

Vente, Minguiño,
Minguiño, vente,
Dóuche sinon
Pó-lo demo do dente.

¡Qu’ augua tan limpa!

¡Qué rica frescura!
Vent’ á lavar
Qu’ é un primor, criatura.

Válgame Dios,
Que si auguiña n’ houbera,
Lama este corpo
Mortal se volvera.

Vinde á lavarvos,
Andá lixeiriños,
A cara pirmeiro,
Dimpois os peïños.

¡Ay!, ¡qué meniña!

¡Qué nena preciosa!
Dempois de lavada
Parec’ unha rosa.

Y este meniño
Que teño no colo,
Dempois de lavado
Parec’ un repolo.

¡Ay!, ¡qué tan cuco!

¡Ay!, ¡qué santiño!
Ven ôs meus brazos
Dareich’ un biquiño.

¡Olliños de groria!
¡Cariña de meiga!
¡Apértame ben,
Coraçón de manteiga!

Corre, corre
A qu’ Antona te peite,
Corre, daráche
Unha cunca de leite.

Corre, corre
A teu pay, Mariquiña,
Que come cebola
Con pan e sardiña.

II
—¡Válgate Dios,
Qu’ inda os figos son duros!
¡Mais qué fartiña
En estando maduros!

Él e máis eu
Y á comadre d’ abaixo,
Hemos de ter
Qu’ alargar ó refaixo.

—
 Rica figueira,
Que Dios te bendiga,
Qu’ ásme, abofé,
De fartar á barriga.

—¡Jey!, ó d’ os ovos
Que vás de camiño,
¿Cántas duciñas
Topache no niño?

—¡Unha no máis!
—¡No me teño c’ á risa!
Es’ ech’ un conto
Que vay par’ á misa.

Dam’ acá seis,

Qu’ un fricol che faría,
Qu’ ô mesmo rey
Qu’ envidiar lle daría.

Xa que non qués

No camiño che colla
Vento de vira,
C’ un saco de molla.
 III

—Turra, turra,
¡Xan pó-la burra!
Mira que Pedro
A cadela ch’ apurra.

¡Ay!, desdichada
De min que á vexo,
Fincarch’ ó colmillo
No triste pelexo.

¡Diancre de Xan,
Que non corre nin tóa!
Ben haya, amén,
Quen os osos che roa.

¡Chúrras!, ¡chúrras!
¡Churriñas, chúrras!
Cas-qui-tó,
Qu’ escorrenta-las burras.

Pica, pica
Suriña, pica,
Léballe un gran
O teu fillo na bica.

Marcha can
A ladrar ô palleiro,
¡Seique ch’ agrada
O demoro do cheiro!

¡Baiche c’ o can,
Qu’ ó peixiño lle gusta!
Mais â teu dono
O diñeiro lle custa.

¡Gachi, gachi,
Que dencho de gato!
¡Cómo se farta
No prebe do prato!

¡Inda reventes,
Larpeiro rabudo!
¡Qu’ inda na gorxa
Ch’ aperten un nudo!

Truca, perico,
No gato rabelo
Hasta deixalo
Quedar sin un pelo

Qu’ eu, s’ outra vez

O camiño m’ atranca,
Ei de rompelle
No lombo unha tranca.

¡Malo d’ aquel
Que non sabe de misa,
Nin entra na igrexa
Nin gasta camisa!...

¡Ay!, ¡qué galiña

Saltou no valado;
Sey que quer vir
A comer de prestado!

Isca d’ ahí,
Galiña maldita,
Isca d’ ahí
Nô me mate-la pita.

Isca d’ ahí,
Galiña ladrona,
Isca d’ ahí
Pra câs tua dona.
 XXX

Cando á luniña aparece

Y ó sol nos mares s’ esconde,
Todo é silencio nos campos,
Todo na ribeira dorme.
Quedan as veigas sin xente,
Sin ovelliñas os montes,
A fonte sin rosas vivas,
Os árbores sin cantores.
Medroso ó vento que pasa
Os pinos xigantes move,
Y a voz que levanta triste,
Outra máis triste responde.
Son as campanas que tocan,
Que tocan en sóns de morte,
Y ô coraçón din n’ olvides
Ós que para sempre dormen.
¡Qué triste! ¡Qué hora tan triste
Aquela en qu’ ó sol s’ esconde,
En qu’ as estrelliñas pálidas
Tímidamente relosen!
Aló as montañas confusas
D’ espesas niebras se croben,
Y á casa branca en qu’ él vive
En sombra espesa s’ envolve.
En vano miro e máis miro,
Qu’ os velos da negra noite
Entr’ ela y os meus olliños
Traidoramente se poñen.

—¿Qué fas ti mentras, meu ben?

Dime dónd’ estás, en dónde,
Que t’ aspero e nunca chegas,
Que te chamo e non respondes.
¿Morreches, meu queridiño?
¿O mar sin fondo tragoute?
¿Leváront’ as ondas feras
Ou perdécheste nos montes?
Vou perguntand’ ôs airiños,
Vou perguntand’ ôs pastores,
Ás verdes ondas pergunto
E ninguén, ¡ay!, me responde.
Os aires mudiños pasan,
Os pastoriños no m’ oyen,
Y as xordas ondas fervendo
Contr’ os penedos se rompen.
Mais ti non morreche, ingrato,
Nin te perdeches nos montes;
Ti, quisáis, mentras qu’ eu peno,
D’ os meus pesares te goces.
¡Coitada de min, coitada!
Qu’ este meu peitiño nobre
Foi para ti deble xunco
Qu’ ô menor vento se torce.
¡Y en recompensa ti olvidásme!
Dasme fel e dasme á morte...
¡Qu’ est’ é ó pago, desdichada,