A REFUGE FOR POETS WHO WRITE IN THE LYRIC TRADITION,
WITH RHYME AND METER, WITH OR WITHOUT MUSIC
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BLACK IS THE COLOUR
Black is the colour of my true love’s 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.
I’ll go to the Clyde, I’ll mourn and weep.
For satisfied I ne’er can be.
I’ll write her a letter, just a few short lines,
And suffer death ten thousand times.
Black is the colour of my true love’s 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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