| |
| 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 | 5 |
| 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; | 10 |
| 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 | 15 |
| 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: | 20 |
| When the mist creeps o’er the Cumbrays, | |
| 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, | 25 |
| 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 | 30 |
| I’ the yellow harst field of Ardbeg | |
| Aboon sweet Rothesay Bay. | |
| |
