|
Black is the colour |
|
of my true love's hair |
|
Her lips are like some roses fair |
|
She has the sweetest smile |
|
and the gentlest hands |
|
And i love the ground where on she stands |
|
I go to the Clyde |
|
where i mourn and weep |
|
For satisfied i never can be |
|
I write her a letter |
|
just a few short lines |
|
and suffer death a thousand times |
|
Black is the colour of my true love's hair |
|
Her lips are like some roses fair |
|
She has the sweetest smile |
|
and the gentlest hands |
|
And i love the ground where on she stands |
|
I love my love and well she knows |
|
I love the ground where on she goes |
|
And i wish the day it soon would come |
|
when she and i could be as one |
|
I go to the Clyde |
|
where i mourn and weep |
|
For satisfied i never can be |
|
I write her a letter |
|
just a few short lines |
|
and suffer death a thousand times |
|
Black is the colour of my true love's hair |
|
Her lips are like some roses fair |
|
She has the sweetest smile |
|
and the gentlest hands |
|
And i love the ground where on she stands |
|
I love my love and well she knows |
|
I love the ground where on she goes |
|
And i wish the day it soon would come |
|
when she and i could be as one |
