English Versions 76. The Lass of Roch Royal
Broadside printed by J. Pitts (London) between 1819 and 1844. The earliest broadside of Lass of Ocram is the Roxburghe collection, III, 488, a folio slip without imprint, dated in the Museum Catalogue 1740. Mr. Ebsworth in the Roxburghe Ballads, VI, 609 puts the date of issue circa 1765.
CONTENTS:
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Lord Gregory- a song written by Robert Burns in 1793
[Dr. Wolcot wrote a Lord Gregory for Thomson's collection, in imitation of which Burns wrote his, and the Englishman complained, with an oath, that the Scotchman sought to rob him of the merit of his composition. Wolcot's song was, indeed, written first, but they are both but imitations of that most exquisite old ballad, "Fair Annie of Lochryan," which neither Wolcot nor Burns valued as it deserved: it far surpasses both their songs.]
I. O mirk, mirk is this midnight hour,
And loud the tempest's roar;
A waefu' wanderer seeks thy tow'r,
Lord Gregory, ope thy door!
II. An exile frae her father's ha',
And a' for loving thee;
At least some pity on me shaw,
If love it may na be.
III. Lord Gregory, mind'st thou not the grove
By bonnie Irwin-side,
Where first I own'd that virgin-love
I lang, lang had denied?
IV. How often didst thou pledge and vow
Thou wad for ay be mine;
And my fond heart, itsel' sae true,
It ne'er mistrusted thine.
V. Hard is thy heart, Lord Gregory,
And flinty is thy breast--
Thou dart of heaven that flashest by,
O wilt thou give me rest!
VI. Ye mustering thunders from above,
Your willing victim see!
But spare and pardon my fause love,
His wrangs to heaven and me!
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The song of Dr. Wolcot (Peter Pindar) on the same subject, is as follows:—
'Ah ope, Lord Gregory, thy door
A midnight wanderer sighs;
Hard rush the rains, the tempests roar,
And lightnings cleave the skies.'
'Who comes with wo at this drear night—
A pilgrim of tho gloom?
If she whose love did once delight,
My cot shall yield her room.'
'Alas! thou heard'st a pilgrim mourn,
That once was prized hy thee:
Think of the ring by yonder burn
Thou gav'st to love and me.'
'But shouldst thou not poor Marion know,
I'll turn my feet and part;
And think the storms that round me blow
Far kinder than thy heart.'
It is but doing justice to Dr Wolcot, to mention that his song is the original. Mr Burns saw it, liked it, and immediately wrote the other on the same subject, which is derived from the old Scottish ballad of uncertain origin.
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Maid Of Ocram Or, Lord Gregory, a poem by John Clare 1820
John Clare (1793 - 1864) was born to a poor labouring family in Northamptonshire. His education did not extend much beyond basic reading and writing, and he had to start work herding animals at the age of seven. This was not a promising start for a future writer, but in his early teens he discovered The Seasons by James Thomson and began writing poems himself.
His first love, Mary Joyce, was the daughter of a wealthy farmer; their separation caused Clare great pain, and it contributed to the sense of loss which pervades much of his poetry.
In 1820 he married Martha Turner and published his first book of poems. He was described as 'John Clare, a Northampton Peasant' on the title-page, and the current fashion for 'rural poetry' brought him some celebrity in London. He made friends with Charles Lamb and other literary figures, and was granted the sum of £45 a year by wealthy patrons.
The vogue for rustic poets did not last long however, and his popularity faded during the 1830s. The situation was made worse by his publishers, who insisted on 'correcting' Clare's individual style and use of dialect, to make his verse fit contemporary notions of poetic convention. Clare's attempts to write like other poets of his day, as well as his financial worries, put tremendous strain on his mind, and in 1837 he was admitted to a mental asylum in High Beach, Epping.
He escaped from the asylum in 1841, and walked home to Northamptonshire, under the delusion that he would be reunited with Mary Joyce there. A few months later he entered Northamptonshire General Asylum, where he lived for the rest of his life, still writing poems when his mental health permitted. The asylum poems are among his best known works, but the haunting descriptions of rural landscapes in poems such as 'The Flitting', 'Decay' and 'Remembrances' are more typical of the true character of his poetic voice.
The Maid Of Ocram Or, Lord Gregory
Addapted by John Clare 1820 from Ganny Baines c. 1800 Helpston Common
Gay was the Maid of Ocram
As lady eer might be
Ere she did venture past a maid
To love Lord Gregory.
Fair was the Maid of Ocram
And shining like the sun
Ere her bower key was turned on two
Where bride bed lay for none.
And late at night she sought her love--
The snow slept on her skin--
Get up, she cried, thou false young man,
And let thy true love in.
And fain would he have loosed the key
All for his true love's sake,
But Lord Gregory then was fast asleep,
His mother wide awake.
And up she threw the window sash,
And out her head put she:
And who is that which knocks so late
And taunts so loud to me?
It is the Maid of Ocram,
Your own heart's next akin;
For so you've sworn, Lord Gregory,
To come and let me in.
O pause not thus, you know me well,
Haste down my way to win.
The wind disturbs my yellow locks,
The snow sleeps on my skin.--
If you be the Maid of Ocram,
As much I doubt you be,
Then tell me of three tokens
That passed with you and me.--
O talk not now of tokens
Which you do wish to break;
Chilled are those lips you've kissed so warm,
And all too numbed to speak.
You know when in my father's bower
You left your cloak for mine,
Though yours was nought but silver twist
And mine the golden twine.--
If you're the lass of Ocram,
As I take you not to be,
The second token you must tell
Which past with you and me.--
O know you not, O know you not
Twas in my father's park,
You led me out a mile too far
And courted in the dark?
When you did change your ring for mine
My yielding heart to win,
Though mine was of the beaten gold
Yours but of burnished tin,
Though mine was all true love without,
Yours but false love within?
O ask me no more tokens
For fast the snow doth fall.
Tis sad to strive and speak in vain,
You mean to break them all.--
If you are the Maid of Ocram,
As I take you not to be,
You must mention the third token
That passed with you and me.--
Twas when you stole my maidenhead;
That grieves me worst of all.--
Begone, you lying creature, then
This instant from my hall,
Or you and your vile baby
Shall in the deep sea fall;
For I have none on earth as yet
That may me father call.--
O must none close my dying feet,
And must none close my hands,
And may none bind my yellow locks
As death for all demands?
You need not use no force at all,
Your hard heart breaks the vow;
You've had your wish against my will
And you shall have it now.
And must none close my dying feet,
And must none close my hands,
And will none do the last kind deeds
That death for all demands?--
Your sister, she may close your feet,
Your brother close your hands,
Your mother, she may wrap your waist
In death's fit wedding bands;
Your father, he may tie your locks
And lay you in the sands.--
My sister, she will weep in vain,
My brother ride and run,
My mother, she will break her heart;
And ere the rising sun
My father will be looking out--
But find me they will none.
I go to lay my woes to rest,
None shall know where I'm gone.
God must be friend and father both,
Lord Gregory will be none.--
Lord Gregory started up from sleep
And thought he heard a voice
That screamed full dreadful in his ear,
And once and twice and thrice.
Lord Gregory to his mother called:
O mother dear, said he,
I've dreamt the Maid of Ocram
Was floating on the sea.
Lie still, my son, the mother said,
Tis but a little space
And half an hour has scarcely passed
Since she did pass this place.--
O cruel, cruel mother,
When she did pass so nigh
How could you let me sleep so sound
Or let her wander bye?
Now if she's lost my heart must break--
I'll seek her till I die.
He sought her east, he sought her west,
He sought through park and plain;
He sought her where she might have been
But found her not again.
I cannot curse thee, mother,
Though thine's the blame, said he
I cannot curse thee, mother,
Though thou'st done worse to me.
Yet do I curse thy pride that aye
So tauntingly aspires;
For my love was a gay knight's heir,
And my father was a squire's.
And I will sell my park and hall;
And if ye wed again
Ye shall not wed for titles twice
That made ye once so vain.
So if ye will wed, wed for love,
As I was fain to do;
Ye've gave to me a broken heart,
And I'll give nought to you.
Your pride has wronged your own heart's blood;
For she was mine by grace,
And now my lady love is gone
None else shall take her place.
I'll sell my park and sell my hall
And sink my titles too.
Your pride's done wrong enough as now
To leave it more to do.
She owneth none that owned them all
And would have graced them well;
None else shall take the right she missed
Nor in my bosom dwell.--
And then he took and burnt his will
Before his mother's face,
And tore his patents all in two,
While tears fell down apace--
But in his mother's haughty look
Ye nought but frowns might trace.
And then he sat him down to grieve,
But could not sit for pain.
And then he laid him on the bed
And ne'er got up again.
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A Review from: Wiltshire Essays by Maurice Henry Hewlett
The editors print (or, in this case, reprint) a ballad called 'The Maid of Ocram, or Lord Gregory', which at first blush is not only remarkable as a poem, but even more so as an imitation of a real folk-ballad. It imitates not more the garb than the spirit of that beautiful thing. This is the opening verse:
Fair was the maid of Ocram
And shining like the sun,
Ere her bower key was turned on two
Where bride bed lay for none.
If that is not a terse and graphic opening, I don't know one. Then the tale begins.
Now it is proper to say here that the tale is exactly the subject of a ballad called 'The Lass of Roch Royall', published for the first time in Child's great book 'from a manuscript of the first half of the eighteenth century'. It is there called 'Fair Isabel! of Roch Royall'; but there is a variant, 'The Lass of Ocram', which derived itself in turn from an Irish version called 'The Lass of Aughrim'. That is only half the story. Where did Clare find the poem which, until it was printed in the Roxburghe Ballads, only existed in the British Museum? There can be little doubt of the answer. When he was a boy, cow-tending on Helpston Common, his present editors tell us, 'he made friends with a curious old lady called Granny Baines, who taught him old songs and ballads'. That is the answer; but other questions arise. What did Clare do with 'The Lass of Ocram' when he had it? The quatrain just quoted, at any rate, is not in it. It will be found also that he has added an ending. The tale shortly is that the lass was betrayed by Lord Gregory, and found herself with child and forsaken. She went to plead with her lover, who was asleep. His mother answered for him and denied her the entry, failing proof. Three 'tokens' are demanded, which the lass supplies. Finally, the mother drives her away, and at her despairing cry Lord Gregory wakes. He has dreamed of the lass, and questions his mother:
Lie still, my dearest son,
And take thy sweet rest;
It is not half an hour ago
The maid passed this place.
The ballad ends with Lord Gregory's remorse and lamentation. Clare, after his masterly opening, plunges into the tale:
And late at night she sought her love;
The snow slept on her skin:
Get up, she cried, thou false young man,
And let thy true love in.
That is new, except for the matter of the second line, which Clare has lifted and, I think, not improved. The original has:
It rains upon my yellow locks,
And the dew falls on my skin.
He uses that also, but, since he was bothered by the snow which he had invented, is forced to change it for:
The wind disturbs my yellow locks,
The snow sleeps on my skin.
In the revelation of the tokens he is not so simple as the ballad, but his additions are to the good. The second token:
O know you not, O know you not
'Twas in my father's park,
You led me out a mile too far,
And courted in the dark.
That is both original, and observed—from many a rustic wooing. The third token was the betrayal, where, as he cannot possibly better his model, he wisely conveys it. The ending, which is Clare's own, is artless and rather comic:
And then he took and burnt his will
Before his mother's face,
And tore his patents all in two,
While tears fell down apace.
Finally,
'He laid him on the bed,
And ne'er got up again.'
While we may be satisfied how much of 'The Maid of Ocram' is Clare's, we shall never know how much was Granny Baines's. That is one of the secrets of folk-song which is insoluble. The 'rain upon her yellow hair', 'the dew sleeping on her skin', are beautiful additions of some unknown English minstrel to 'The Lass of Roch Royall'. A close collation of the two would be interesting, if not fruitful. Clare's 'lay-out' of the tragedy, in his two opening octaves, is his only serious contribution. I do not find that he did anything else of the kind. He has plenty of narrative, but no other dramatic narrative, and of his many tales in verse none approaches this one either for terseness or the real ballad touch of magic.