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