Black is the colour,
Of my true love's hair.
Her lips are like a rose so fair.
She's got 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.
And how I wish the day would come,
Where she and I can be as one.
So I moved to clyde, and mourn and weep.
"Cause satisfied, I'll never be.
I'll write her letters,
Just a few short lines,
And suffer death ten thousand times.
Black is the colour,
Of my true love's hair.
Her lips are like a rose so fair.
She's got the sweetest smile
And the gentlest hands.