Black is the colour of my true love's hair.
His face is something wondrous fair.
The prettiest eyes and the gentlest hands,
I love the ground whereon he stands.
I love my love, and well he knows,
I love the ground whereon he goes.
But still I hope the day would come
when he and I would be as one.
I go to the Clyde and I mourn and weep.
For satisfied I never can sleep.
I write him a letter, just a few short lines,
and suffer death ten thousand times.
But black is the colour of my true love's hair.
His face is something wondrous fair.
The prettiest eyes and the gentlest hands,
I love the ground whereon he stands.