Para Ti, Mestre

Black is the colour of my true love's hair
His lips are like some roses fair
He's the sweetest smile and the gentlest hands
And I love the ground whereon he stands
I love my love and well he knows
I love the ground whereon he goes
How I wish the time would soon come
When he and I can be as one
I go to the Clyde
and mourn and weep
for satisfied I’d never sleep
I write him a letter, just a few short lines
And I suffer death ten thousand times

The Corrs