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