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.