Black Is the Colour

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