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(learned from Linda Allen in about 1958)

staff with melody

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)