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 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
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.
If you are the Lass of Ocram,
as I take you to be,
You must go to yonder island,
there Lord Gregory you'll see.
It rains upon my yellow locks,
and the dew fall on my skin,
Open the gates Lord Gregory
and let your true love in.
If you are 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.
You and I swap’d my linen fine,
it was fair against my will:
For mine was of the holland fine,
and yours but coarse cloth.
For mine cost a guinea a yard,
and yours but five groats.
If you are the Lass of Ocram,
as l take you not to be,
You must mention the second token,
that past between you and me.
Don’t you remember, Lord Gregory,
one night in my father’s park,
We flapped our two golden 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 ail false within.
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 stole my maidenhead,
which was the worst of all.
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 waist so small,
into a landen span;
And who will comb my yellow locks,
with a brown berry comb,
And who’s to be father of my child,
if 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 ;
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 dream’d a dream dear mother,
I could wish to have it read,
I saw the Lass of Ocram
a floating on the flood.
Lie still, lie still my only son,
and sound sleep may'st thou get,
For its but an hour or little mair,
since she was at the yate.
Awa, awa, ye wicked woman,
and an ill death may you die,
Ye might have either letten her in,
or else have wakened me.
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.
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
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