BLACK IS THE COLOR
(learned from Linda Allen in about 1958)
Black,
Black,
Black is the color of my true love's hair;
Her lips are like some rosy fair;
The prettiest face and the neatest hands,
I love the ground 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 fade away...
I go too troublesome to mourn and weep,
But satisfied I ne'er could sleep,
I'll write to you in a few little lines.
I'll suffer death ten thousand times...
So fare you well, my own true love.
The time has passed, I wish you well.
But still I hope that the time will come
(from miriam berg's folksong collection)