Black is The Colour

Traditonal

Black is the colour of my love’s hair
Her lips are like some roses fair
She has the sweetest smile
and the gentlest hands
And I love the ground whereon she stands

I love my love, and well she knows
I love the ground whereon she goes
I wish the day soon would come
When she and I will be as one

I go to the Clyde and mourn and weep
But satisfied I never shall be
I’ll write her a letter just a few short lines
and suffer death a thousand times