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Black ist the colour of my true love's hair |
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his face is like some roses fair |
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he has the sweetest face and the neatest hands |
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I love the ground whereon he stands |
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I love my love and well he know |
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I love the ground whereon he goes |
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I wish the day it soon would come |
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when he and I could be as one |
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I go to the Clyde for to mourn and weep |
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for satisfied I ne'er can be |
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I write him a letter, just a few short lines |
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and suffer death a thousand times |
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I love my love and well he know |
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I love the ground whereon he goes |
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he's got the stweetest face, the neatest hands |
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I love the ground whereone he stands |
