Black is the colour of my true love's hair,
Her lips are like some roses fair,
She's the sweetest smile, And
the gentlest hands,
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, it soon would come,
When she and I could be as one.
I go to the Clyde and I mourn and weep,
For satisfied, I ne'er can be,
I write her a letter, just a few short lines,
And suffer death, a thousand times.