Rothesay Bay

FU' yellow lie the corn rigs Far doun the braid hillside; It is the brawest harst field Alang the shores o'Clyde,-- And I'm a puir harst-lassie That stan's the lee-lang day Shearing the corn-rigs of Ardbeg Aboon sweet Rothesay Bay. O I had ance a true-love,-- Now, I hae nane ava; And I had ance three brithers, But I hae tint them a'; My father and my mither Sleep i' the mools this day. I sit my lane amang the rigs Aboon sweet Rothesay Bay. It's a bonnie bay at morning, And bonnier at the noon, But it's bonniest when the sun draps And red comes up the moon: When the mist creeps o'er the Cambrays, And Arran peaks are gray, And the great black hills, like sleepin' kings, Sit grand roun' Rothesay Bay, Then a bit sigh stirs my bosom, And a wee tear blin's my e'e,-- And I think o'that far Countrie What I wad like to be! But I rise content i' the morning To wark while wark I may I' the yellow harst field of Ardbeg Aboon sweet Rothesay Bay.