The Ferry loads us up,
Such a very special way
To come to this Isle of Bute
On our Scottish holiday,
Very early in the season
In this little tourist town
That seems to face its bay
With a dilapidated frown.
Slipping into gentle decay, almost
As though defeated by times test
Its more finer days long gone
And it's well past its best.
Empty shops, unpainted fronts,
Common sights in recent years,
Sad all over this our country
But especially sad here,
In this little island town
This little tourist centre,
Which tries to smile and say
We are still here, please enter.
Fashions change
From year to year
Sometimes it's there
Sometimes back here
But the people of the town
Welcome all with open arms
And it's so easy to be
Enveloped by its charms.
As the May sun sets
The beauty of the bay
Is enhanced by the tempting
Blood red, near solid pathway
Stretching from shore to shore
Its warm red light
Helping day slip
Gently into night.
When it comes to the leaving
On your final charmed day
Hasten You Back is the last sign
To be seen as the Ferry pulls away.
Zavaroni's ice creams
The butcher's fine meat
That intriguing little book shop
On the corner of the street:
All the those things remembered,
Things of every day,
That added to the pleasure of
Our all too too short stay.
