The verses in the Digitrad go:

Black is the color of my true love's hair
Her lips are like some rosy fair
The purest eyes and the neatest hands
I love the ground whereon she stands


I go to the Clyde for to mourn and weep
But satisfied I never can sleep
I'll write to you in a few short lines
I'll suffer death ten thousand times


Which, if you are at all familiar with our great Romantic tradition, is about par for a pining lover, whether rejected yet or not -- they are always resorting to the melodramatic to highlight the infinite, unfathomable specialness of their particular set of hormonal tidal waves. Dying a thousand times is pretty normal under the circumstances.

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