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Song :
Fu' yellow lie the cornrigs, fat down the braid hillside;
It is the brawest har'st field, alang the shores o' Clyde,
And I'm a puir har'st lassie wha stands the lee lang day -
Amang the cornrigs of Ardbeg, aboon sweet Rothesay Bay.
O I had ance a true love, now I hae nane ava;
And I had three braw 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 noon,
But bonniest when the sun draps and red comes up the moon.
When the mist creeps o'er the Cumbraes and Arran peaks are gray,
And the great black hills, like sleeping kings, sit grand roun' Rothesay Bay.
Then a bit sigh stirs my bosom, and wee tear blin's my e'e,
And I think of that far countrie wha I wad like to be.
But I rise content i' the morning to wark while I may -
I' the yellow har'st field of Ardbeg, aboon sweet Rothesya Bay.
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