The Lass of Ocram- Broadside c.1740 Child App
"The Lass of Ocram" (or "Aughrim") was first published in The Roxburghe Ballads, Volume 6 by William Chappell, Ballad Society, 1889. A version of the ballad was adapted by poet John Clare in 1820. See both below. It appeares in Child as a supplimental version in the Additions and Corrections volume.
Kittredge comments in Additions and Corrections: There is a version of this ballad in the Roxburghe collection, III, 488, a folio slip without imprint, dated in the Museum Catalogue 1740. I was not aware of the existence of this copy till it was printed by Mr. Ebsworth in the Roxburghe Ballads, VI, 609. He puts the date of issue circa 1765. It is here given from the original. Compare H.
Broadside print from J. Pitts; early 1800s
The Lass of Ocram
1 I built my love a gallant ship,
And a ship of Northern fame,
And such a ship as I did build,
Sure there never was seen.
2 For her sides were of the beaten gold,
And the doors were of block-tin,
And sure such a ship as I built
There sure never was seen.
3 And as she was a sailing,
By herself all alone,
She spied a proud merchant-man,
Come plowing oer the main.
4 'Thou fairest of all creatures
Under the heavens,' said she,
'I am the Lass of Ocram,
Seeking for Lord Gregory.'
5 'If you are the Lass of Ocram,
As I take you for to he,
You must go to yonder island,
There Lord Gregory you'll see.'
6 'It rains upon my yellow locks,
And the dew falls on my skin;
Open the gates, Lord Gregory,
And let your true-love in!'
7 'If you're the Lass of Ocram,
As I take you not to he,
You must mention the three tokens
Which passd between you and me.'
8 'Don't you remember, Lord Gregory,
One night on my father's hill,
With you I swaf t my linen fine?
It was sore against my will.
9 'For mine was of the Holland fine,
And yours but Scotch cloth;
For mine cost a guinea a yard,
And yours but five groats.'
10 'If you are the Lass of Ocram,
As I think you not to be,
You must mention the second token
That passd between you and me.'
11 'Don't you remember, Lord Gregory,
One night in my father's park,
We swaffed our two rings?
It was all in the dark.
12 'For mine was of the beaten gold,
And yours was of block-tin;
And mine was true love without,
And yours all false within.'
13 'If you are the Lass of Ocram,
As I take you not to be,
You must mention the third token
Which past between you and me.'
14 'Don't you remember, Lord Gregory,
One night in my father's hall,
Where you stole my maidenhead?
Which was the worst of all.'
15 'Begone, you base creature!
Begone from out of the hall!
Or else in the deep seas
You and your babe shall fall.'
16 'Then who will shoe my bonny feet?
And who will close my hands?
And who will lace my waste so small,
Into a landen span?
17 'And who will comb my yellow locks,
With a brown berry comb?
And who's to be father of my child
If Lord Gregory is none?'
18 'Let your brother shoe your bonny feet,
Let your sister close your hands,
Let your mother lace your waist so small,
Into a landen span.
19 'Let your father comb your yellow locks,
With a brown berry comb,
And let God be father of your child,
For Lord Gregory is none.'
20 'I dreamt a dream, dear mother,
I could wish to have it read;
I saw the Lass of Ocram
A floating on the flood.'
21 'Lie still, my dearest son,
And take thy sweet rest;
It is not half an hour ago,
The maid passd this place.'
22 'Ah! cursed be you, mother!
And cursed may you be,
That you did not awake me,
When the maid passd this way!
23 'I will go down into some silent grove,
My sad moan for to make;
It is for the Lass of Ocram
My poor heart now will break.'
________________
The Roxburghe Ballads, Volume 6 By William Chappell, Ballad Society 1889
The Lass of Ocram
"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 woe at this dread night—a pilgrim of the 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 by thee:
Think of the ring, by yonder burn, thou gav'st to Love and me!
"But should'st thou not poor Marian know, I'll turn my feet and part;
And think the storms that round me blow, far kinder than thy heart."
—Lord Gregory, by Dr. John Walcot, c. 1787.
We are happy to be the first (so far as wo know) to reprint "The Lass of Ocram," which probably affords the earliest extant text of this truly interesting and pathetic love-tale. On it Dr. Walcot at his best (see above; also p. 212, where a fragmentary song of 1787 is given), and Sir Walter Scott still later, tried their powers. There are various corrupt and fraudulent versions afloat, and even our Roxburghe Ballad is somewhat flawed, a modernized reprint of one that may have belonged to the days of Mary Queen of Scots. It is the authentic fountain-head of all the others.
Rude as it is, and evidently damaged in transmission to us (notably in the opening stanza, with its three-fold "sure," and its reiterations concerning the building of the "ship of Northern fame"), it has a touching simplicity and directness. The girl, whose honour had been basely wounded in the past by her sordidlytrafficing lover, makes a last appeal to him, in the darkness of tho night, amid inclemency of wind and rain. She finds the custle-door closed against her prayers for shelter; with disguised voice the hateful mother of the wronger, Lord Gregory, questions her thrice from the grating, until she gains the knowledge that her prurient malice had desired, when she reviles and drives hence the poor despairing victim to perish with her unfathered baby in the storm. A stanza or more may have been lost, but the leaving unbridged such abrupt transitions was far from unusual of old. The awakening of the tardy lover, top late to save the girl from insult and destruction, is followed by the malediction on his own mother who had acted so remorselessly.
In a fragment from The Scots' Musical Museum (see p. 212 ante), the cold brutality of the lover is unredeemed by kindness:—
"If you are the lass that I lov'd once, as I trow you are not she,
Come, give me some of the tokens that past between you and me!"
Such a demand, urged at so inauspicious a time, would be amazing, if we did not gain the clue from our "Lass of Ocram" ballad, that it is the feigned voice of the mother speaking, instead of the lover, while he sleeps unconscious of her cruel treachery
The curse is left to speed home to its mark, not " coming home to roost," but poetical justice demands that the woman who has msexed herself to torture a lost girl may wither away in heart and soul, dreading to die, yet shuddering at each return of dawn.
In his Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border (vol. ii. p. 58), Sir 'Walter Scott gave 39 stanzas; "The Lass of Lochroyan: now first published in a perfect state;" beginning with our lines 61-76, p. 614:—
"O wha will shoe my bonny foot, and wha will glove my hand?
And wha will lace my middle jimp wi' a lang lang linen band?
"O wha will kame my yellow hair, with a new made silver kame
And wha will father my young son, till Lord Gregory come hame:"
''Thy father will shoe thy bonny foot, thy mother will glove thy had,
Thy sister will lace thy middle jimp, till Lord Gregory come to land
"Thy brother will kame thy yellow hair, with a new made siller tame,
And God will be thy bairn's father, till Lord Gregory come hame."
"But I will get a bonny boat, and I will sail the sea;
And I will gang to Lord Gregory, since he canna come hame to me."
Scott's version was compounded from "three manuscript copies and two from recitation. Two of the copies are in Herd's MSS.; the third is that of Mrs. Brown of Falkland."—Minstrelsy S.B., iii. 56, 1803. By the way, "Love Gregory," or Gregor (perhaps MacGregor), not Lord Gregory, appears to have been the true title: Lochroyan is in Wigtonshire, near Stranraer.
David Herd and George Paton had earlier printed in their Ancient and Modern Songs, Heroic Ballads, etc. (vol. i. p. 149, 1776: not in the single vol. edition, 1769), "The Bonny Lass of Lochroyan," twentyeight and a half four-line stanzas, beginning, "0, wha will shoe my bonny feet? Or wha will glove my hand?" Our "prond merchant-man" (Scott's "rank robber," and Herd's "rude rover,") then directs her where to find her "love Gregory." The "bonny ship" is described as "cover'd o'er with pearl: and at every needletack was in't there hang a siller-bell." This is more fanciful than our Roxburghe-ballad prototype of an armour-clad, with its " sides of the beaten gold, and doors were of block-tin." The Rover is dazzled by her beauty, and asks :—
"O whether art thou the Queen hersell? or ane of her Maria three?
Or art thou the Lass of Lochroyan seeking love Gregory?"
"O I am not the Queen hersell, nor ane of her Maries three;
But I am the Lass of Lochroyan, seeking love Gregory"
"O sees na thou yon bonny buwer. it's a' cover'd o'er wi' tin:
When thou hast sail'd it round about, love Gregory is within."
When she had sail'd it round about, she tirl'd at the pin,
''O open, open, love Gregory, open and let me in!
"For I am the Lass of Lochroyan, bitnisht frae a' my kin."
[Then his mother heard, and spak till her, while Gregory sleepit within.]
Next follow the demands to tell the love-tokens: the exchanged rings come first (no word of the changed linen); then the confession of dishonour is obtained; yet surely unnecessarily (except on the supposition of it being misplaced) is a later inquiry made for "mair o' the tokens, past between me and thee" [1]:—
Then she turn'd her round about, '* Well since it will be sae,
Let never woman who has born a son hae a heart sae full of wae.
"Take down, take down that mast of gould, set up a mast of tree.
For it disna become a forsaken lady to sail sae royallie." {See note 2}
Then comes, abruptly, Gregory's awakening, with his telling the dream which had been caused either by half-hearing her voice, or by that true mystic sympathy, which materialists reject and despise.
"I dreamt a dream this night, mother, I wish it may prove true,
That the bonny Lass of Loehroyan was at the yate just now."
" Lie still, lie still, my only son, and sound sleep may'st thou get;
For it's but an hour or little mair since she was at the yate.'
"Awa, awa, ye wicked woman! and an ill death may you die;
Te might have either letten her in, or else hare waken'd me.
Gar saddle to me the black," he said, " Gar saddle to me the brown,
Gar saddle to me the swiftest steed that is in a' the town."
Now the first town he came to, the bells were ringing there;
And the neist town he came to, her corpse was coming there.
"Set down, set down that comely corpse, set down and let me see,
Gin that be the Lass of Loehroyan, that died for love o' me."
And he took out his little pen-knife, that hang down by his gar'e;
And he's ripp'd up her winding-sheet, a long cloth-yard or mair.
And first he kist her cherry-cheek, and syne he kist her chin,
And neist he kist her rosy lips; there was nae breath within.
And be has ta'en his little pen-knife, with a heart that was fou sair;
He has given himself a deadly wound, and word spoke never mair.
Thus ends Herd's version, printed in 1776, saved from earlier years. Where he found fragments he honestly gave them as such. He was the best of our Early-Ballads editors, rival seekers for Reliques. Jamieson and Motherwell (himself a true poet) were able men, but could not resist the temptation to manufacture and add connecting links or "improvements." Allan Cunningham was fraudulence personified, and thus well suited Cromek. We entertain respect and liking for Robert Kinloch, an assiduous hunter of waifs and strays, late in the day, when the game had become scarce. Charles Kirkpatrick Sharpe was a genuine Last of the Mohicans, shrewd, skilful, and honest, to whom we owe lasting gratitude: we often saw him in our young days, aud twice was this small editorial head patted by his hand, while we gazed at his spotless gaiters with awe. Win. Edmondstoune Aytoun stood among the best of workers at interweaving the most telling stanzas of differentiated versions into one harmonious narrative. He neither falsified nor mutilated causelessly: he simply re-cast or soldered them into mosaic-work.
As for the untrustworthy recitations, the so-called "traditionary" variations, pretended to be carried down from hoar antiquity by garrulous old women, half-blundering and half-fraudulent, they need not detain us here. Elizabeth Cochrane's song-book version begins, "Fair Isabell of Rockroyatt she dreamed where she lay," and by aid of idle repetitions it is inflated to thirty-five stanzas. Nor care we more for Widow Stevenson's nearly-worthless version, (in Pitcairn's MSS., iii. p. 1), which, lacking the beginning, starts with "She sailed west, she sailed east, she sailed mony a mile; Until she cam to Lord Gregor's yett, and she tirled at the pin." Here the seeker is called "the bonny Lass of Kuchlaw Hill." In Peter Buchan's MSS. ii. 149, his Ballads of the North of Scotland, ii. 198, 1828, and J. H. Dixon's Scottish Traditional Fersioru of Ancient Ballads (Percy Society, vol. xvii. 1845), one beginning, "It fell on a Wodensday, Love Gregory's ta'en the sea," she is "Lady Janet," but in Robert Jamieson's she is "Annie of Lochroyan." Some few genuine relics are in "The Lass of Aughrim" (transferring the scene to Aughrim, Roscommon, Ireland, and with curious similarity of name to our Roxburghe "Ocram"), preserved by Mr. G. C. Mahon of Ann Arbor, Michigan, as it had been sung by a labourer at Tyrrelspass, West Meath, Ireland, about 1830. It begins, "Oh! who'll comb my yellow locks, with the brown berry comb?" Charles Kirkpatrick Sharpe's fragment, from Galloway and Dumfriesshire, holds no more than one valuable stanza:—
"O open the door, Love Gregory, O open and let me in;
The wind blows through my yellow nair, and the dew draps o'er my chin."
In Herd's version we note the absurdity of Gregory ordering hi" horses and riding after his mistress, who had gone off from his castle, even as she had come to it, in a ship by sea. The ring, the Bhip, and the castle (Rock Royal) are persistently described as of "block tin!" Was the author a Cornish miner? Dervaux says, perhaps it was all on account of Love Gregory being on an island, blockt in by the waves, and over-wearied by his "witch-mother."
The Lass of Ocram
I Built my Love a gallant ship,
And a ship of Northern fame,
And such a ship as I did build,
Sure there never was seen;
For the sides were of the beaten gold,
And the doors were of block tin,
And sure such a ship as I built,
There never [before] was seen. [Text: "There sure"]
And as she was a sailing
By herself all alone,
She spied a proud merchant-man
Come plowing o'er the main.
"Thou fairest of all creatures,
Under the heavens," said she,
"I am the Lass of Ocram,
Seeking for Lord Gregory." 16
"If you are the Lass of Ocram,
As I take you for to be,
You must go to yonder island,
There Lord Gregory you'll see."
"It rains upon my yellow locks, [She lands
And the dew falls on my skin;
Open the gates, Lord Gregory,
And let your true love in!" 24
"If you're the Lass of Ocram,
As I take you not to be,
You must mention the three tokens
Which pass'd between you and me."
"Don't you remember, Lord Gregory,
One night on my father's hill,
With you I swaft my linen fine,
It was sore against my will; 32
For mine was of the Holland fine,
And yours but Scotch cloth;
For mine cost a guinea a yard,
And yours but five groats."
"If you are the Lass of Ocram,
As I think you not to be,
You must mention the second token.
That pass'd between you and me." 40
"Don't you remember, Lord Gregory,
One night in my father's park,
We swaffed our two rings,
It was all in the dark;
For mine was of the beaten gold,
And yours was of block tin;
And mine was true-love without,
And yours all false within." 48
"If you are the Lass of Ocram,
As I take you not to be,
You must mention the third token,
"Which past between you and me."
"Don't you remember, Lord Gregory,
One night in my father's hall,
Where you Btole my maidenhead,
Which was the worst of all." 56
"Begone, you base creature!
Begone from out of the hall!
Or else in the deep seas
You and your babe shall fall."
"Then who will shoe my bonny feet,
And who will close my hands.
And who will lace my waste so small, [ef. p. 6ii.]
Into a landen span? 64
"And who will comb ray yellow locks,
With a brown berry comb?
And who's to be father to my child,
If Lord Gregory is none?"
"Let your brother shoe your bonny feet,
Let your sister close your hands,
Let your mother lace your waist so small,
Into a landen span. 72
Let your father comb your yellow locks,
With a brown berry comb,
And let God be father of your child,
For Lord Gregory is none."
"I dreamt a dream, dear mother, [£ord Gregory speaks.
I could wish to have it read,
I saw the Lass of Ocram
A floating on the flood." 80
"Lie still, my dearest son,
And take thy sweet rest;
It is not half an hour ago,
The maid pass'd this place."
"Ah! cursed be you, mother!
And cursed may you be,
That you did not awake me,
When the maid pass'd this way! 88
I will go down into some silent grove,
My sad moan for to make;
It is for the Lass of Ocram,
My poor heart now will break."
[White-letter. No printer's name. Woodcut of ship. Date of issue, circa 1765. See the introduction for variations, especially the conclusion given by Herd.]
Footnotes:
1. Here, if anywhere, comes in a doubtful 38th stanza given by Maurice Ogle in 1871 (Ballad Minstrtlsy of Scotland, p. 7), Fair Annie 0' Lochryan:—
"Oh! ha'e ye gotten anither fair love, for all the oaths ye sware?
Then fare ye weel, fause Gregory, for me ye's ne'er see mair!"
2. Robert Jamieson's remembered 23rd stanza (1805) might follow Herd's on the ' mast of gold' being unsuitable for a forsaken lady :—
"Tak down, tak down the sails o' silk, set up the sails o' skin;
Ill sets [=suits] the outside to be gay, whan there's sic grief within."
He reads," lace my middle jimp wi' a new-made London band :" Scott,' linen.'
________________
Maid Of Ocram Or, Lord Gregory by John Clare c. 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.