Dinah Maria Craik

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 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,	
    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.