Octavia Rose
Grand Harp Of The North
At the end of 2023, when my beautiful studio piano arrived, I ran a competition to name her. From over a hundred submissions, seven combined to create Octavia Rose: Grand Harp Of The North. The prize was a miniature piece of music. The winners included several singers including a true bass, and an oboist.
To celebrate, please help yourself to whichever arrangement suits you.
The first bar of the tune is taken from the Cornish folk song Ryb An Avon - as many of the minors who came to Burra to work the mine were Cornish.
Next time you’re up my way - the beautiful Mid North country of South Australia - pop in and play this piece with the original, beautiful Octavia Rose on whom the piece was written.
Congratulations and thank you to the winners - BJ Moore, Celia Craig, Kerry O’Regan, Mary McFadden, Brett Lambert, Libby Druce and Cate Mettam.
Treble Voice and Piano
A good range for most singers. vocal range Bb3 to Db4. key F minor. Time Signature 4/4
Bass Voice and Piano
A piece for a true bass. vocal range Eb1 to A3. Key D minor. Time Signature 4/4.
Oboe and Piano
A piece for oboe, which would work for violin or other treble instrument. range Eb3 to A5.
Introducing Octavia Rose: Grand Harp Of The North
If you’d like a listen…here she is. Isn’t she beautiful. Thank you to darling resident baritone/husband Emlyn for recording this for me.
But then, my mother…
The story doesn’t end there. Mary, one of the winners expressed a wish for a long ballad, in the style of a beloved folk song from the old country. This didn’t map very well onto a miniature, but my mother, a published author and retired academic, penned a long ballad for Mary. So as a bonus, here’s the amazing ballad of Octavia Rose in full, by Kerry O’Regan.
The Ballad of Octavia Rose
The Lady fair Octavia Rose
The pale Octavia Rose
She sits at her harp but plays no more
Just sits there in sad repose
Her mother and her dear papa
They fret and they fuss and fear
“How can we keep our darling safe?
How can we bring her cheer?”
“She’s fading our Octavia Rose
Her hands are now too weak
To pluck that big and beautiful harp
What comfort can we seek?”
“They say that just across the sea
A little to the west
They make there harps that she might play
Held gently near her breast.”
And so a harp maker was found
In Erin’s fair green isle
With hopes the sweet sounds of his harp
Could rouse the lady’s smile.
The harp maker was Dan O’Shea
His harps they were renowned
With gleaming wood and strings of brass
They made a glorious sound.
Such things of beauty Dan’s harps were
And he was beauteous too
His black curls all a-tumble
His eyes of deepest blue.
And so the handsome harp maker
Came with his harp one day
Right to the manor house wherein
Octavia Rose did stay.
She smiled to see the harp he bore
So gently in his arms
She smiled at his curls and his sparkling eyes
She smiled at all his charms.
And so, as all these stories go
I hardly have to say
They fell in love, Octavia Rose
And the handsome Dan O’Shea.
I hardly have to say as well
Their love was not to be.
“Go back from whence you came, young sir
Across the Irish Sea.”
“I’ll go across the sea”, he said
“But not the one you say.
I’ll travel halfway round the world
And come back rich one day.”
“I’ll come back rich, you wait and see
I’ll come back rich one day
And then Octavia Rose may be
Octavia Rose O’Shea.”
So off Dan went to board a ship
The first one that he found
He hardly noticed that it was
For South Australia bound.
And as they travelled all those weeks
Half round the world or so
He asked of crew and passengers
The best place he should go.
“The best place to get rich?” they said
“You need to travel forth
A day or two on horseback
There’s copper mines up north.”
And so he went to Burra town
But there, alas, he found
Hands that shape harps are just not meant
For digging in the ground
But e’er he goes and e’er he does
He always and ever hears
The sound of the harp of Octavia Rose
Midst his laughter and midst all his tears.
They say now at night you can hear that harp
As wind through the grass on the hill
The strings plucked now by invisible hands
As Octavia Rose haunts us still.
You can hear in the strings, in the heart, in the voice
Of all who would play and compose
The sad haunting strains of the beautiful harp
Of the Lady Octavia Rose