I Built my Love a gallant ship,
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And a ship of Northern fame,
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And such a ship as I did build,
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Sure there never was seen,
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For her sides were of the beaten gold,
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And the doors were of block tin,
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And sure such a ship as I built,
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There sure never was seen.
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And as she was a sailing,
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By herself all alone,
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She spied a proud merchant man,
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Come plowing oer the main,
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Thou fairest of all creatures,
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Under the heavens said she,
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I am the Lass of Ocram,
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Seeking for Lord Gregory.
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If you are the Lass of Ocram,
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As I take you for to be,
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You must go to yonder island,
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There Lord Gregory youll see.
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It rains upon my yellow locks,
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And the dew falls on my skin,
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Open the gates Lord Gregory,
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And let your true love in.
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If youre the Lass of Ocram,
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As I take you not to be,
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You must mention the three tokens
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Which passd between you and me.
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Dont you remember, Lord Gregory,
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One night on my fathers hill,
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With you I swaft my linen fine,
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It was fore against my will;
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For mine was of the Holland fine,
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And yours but Scotch cloth,
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For mine cost a guinea a yard,
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And yours but five groats.
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If you are the Lass of Ocram,
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As I think you not to be,
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You must mention the second token,
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That passd between you and me.
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Dont you remember, Lord Gregory,
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One night in my fathers park,
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We swaffed our two rings,
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It was all in the dark;
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For mine was of the beaten gold,
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And yours was of block tin,
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And mine was true love without,
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And yours all false within.
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If you are the Lass of Ocram,
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As I take you not to be,
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You must mention the third token,
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Which past between you and me.
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Dont you remember, Lord Gregory,
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One night in my fathers hall,
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Where you stole my maidenhead,
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Which was the worst of all.
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Begone you base creature,
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Begone from out of the hall,
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Or else in the deep seas
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You and your babe shall fall.
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Then who will shoe my bonny feet,
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And who will close my hands,
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And who will lace my waste so small,
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Into a landen span,
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And who will comb my yellow locks,
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With a brown berry comb,
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And whos to be father of my child,
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If Lord Gregory is none?
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Let your brother shoe your bonny feet,
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Let your sister close your hands,
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Let your mother lace your waist so small,
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Into a landen span;
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Let your father comb your yellow locks,
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With a brown berry comb,
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And let God be father of your child,
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For Lord Gregory is none.
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I dreamt a dream dear mother,
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I could wish to have it read,
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I saw the Lass of Ocram,
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A floating on the flood.
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Lie still my dearest son,
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And take thy sweet rest,
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It is not half an hour ago,
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The maid passd this place.
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Ah! cursed be you mother,
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And cursed may you be,
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That you did not awake me,
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When the maid passd this way;
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I will go down into some silent grove,
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My sad moan for to make,
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It is for the Lass of Ocram,
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My poor heart now will break.
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