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