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.
I love the ground whereon she stands.
I love my love and well she knows.
I love the ground whereon she goes.
I wish the day it soon would come.
When she and I could be as one.
I go to the Clyde and I mourn and weep.
For satisfied I neèr can be.
I write her a letter, just a few short lines.
And suffer death a thousand times.
Black ist he colour of my true love`s hair.
Her lips are like some roses fair.
She has the sweetest smile and the gentlest hands.
I love the ground whereon she stands.
I love the ground whereon she stands.