Black, black is the color of my [bad word] love's hair,
Her lips are something rosy fair,
The pertest 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 leave me.

I go to Troublesome to mourne, to weep,
But satisfied I ne'er can sleep;
I'll write her a note in a few little lines,
I'll suffer death ten thousand times.

Black, black is the color of my [bad word] love's hair,
Her lips are sometimes rosy fair,
The pertest face and the daintiest hands
I love the grass whereon she stands.