I
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.
II
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.
III
I go to the Clyde and I mourn and weep.
For satisfied I ne'er can be.
I write her a letter, just a few short lines,
And suffer death a thousand times.
(traditional)
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.
II
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.
III
I go to the Clyde and I mourn and weep.
For satisfied I ne'er can be.
I write her a letter, just a few short lines,
And suffer death a thousand times.
(traditional)