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A REFUGE FOR POETS WHO WRITE IN THE LYRIC TRADITION,

WITH RHYME AND METER, WITH OR WITHOUT MUSIC




BLACK IS THE COLOUR

Black is the colour of my true loveís hair.
Her lips are like some roses fair.
Got 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 hope the day soon will come
That she and I will be as one.

Iíll go to the Clyde, Iíll mourn and weep.
For satisfied I neíer can be.
Iíll write her a letter, just a few short lines,
And suffer death ten thousand times.

Black is the colour of my true loveís hair.
Her lips are like some roses fair.
Got the sweetest smile, and the gentlest hands.
I love the ground whereon she stands.

Traditional Celtic



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