Black is the colour of my true love’s hair,
Her lips are something rosy fair.
The prettiest face and the daintiest hands,
I love the grass whereon she stands.
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 heed ye.
I’ll go to troublesome to mourn, to weep,
But satisfied, I ne’er shall sleep.
I’ll write her a note in a few little lines,
And suffer death ten thousand times.
Black is the colour of my true love’s hair,
Her lips are something rosy fair.
The prettiest face and the daintiest hands,
I love the grass whereon she stands.
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