Black is the colour of my [bad word] 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 [bad word] 

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.