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