Well,
black is the color
of my true love's hair.
Her lips are like
some rose
so fair.
She has the sweetest face.
She has the gentlest hand.
And I love the ground
whereon she stands.
I love my love
and well she knows.
I
love the ground
whereon she goes.
And how I wish
that day would come
when she and I
should be as one.
Well, I go to the Clyde and I'm mourning we.
For satisfied I never
can be.
Well, I write her a letter,
just a few short lines.
And I suffer death
a thousand times.
Yes, black is the color
of my true love's hair.
Her lips are like
some
rose so fair.
She has the sweetest face.
She has the gentlest hand.
And I love the ground
whereon she stands.
