Black, black, black is the color of my true love's hair,
Her lips are something rosy fair,
The pertest (purest) face and the daintiest hands
I love the grass wheron 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 leave me.
I go to Troublesome to mourn, to weep,
But satisfied I ne're can sleep;
I'll write her a note in a few little lines,
I'll suffer death ten thousand times.
Black, black, black is the color of my true love's hair,
Her lips are something rosy fair,
The purtest (purest) face and the daintiest hands,
I love the grass whereon she stands.