Black is the colour of my true love's hair. Her lips are like a rose so fair. She's got the sweetest face 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. And how I whish the day would come when she and I can be as one.
I go to the Clyde and mourn and weep satisfied I never will sleep. I 'll write her a letter, just a few short lines And suffer death ten thousand times.
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