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Traditional
- Black, black, black is the colour of my true love's hair,
Her face is fine and wondrous fair,
The handsomest face and the gentlest hands,
I love the ground whereon she stands.
- I go to the Clyde for to mourn and weep
But satisfied I never can sleep
I'll write to you in a few short lines
I'll suffer death ten thousand times
- I love my love and well she knows
I love the grass whereon she goes.
If she on earth no more I see
My life will quickly fade away
- The winter's past and the leaves are green,
Gone are the days that we have seen.
But still I hope that the time will come,
Then you and I will be as one.
- Black is the colour of my true love's hair,
Her lips are like some rosy fair
The purest eyes and the neatest hands
I love the ground whereon she stands.