Upon Arran’s shores, where mountains meet the sea,

A bowling green unfolds, in rustic glee.

No grand arena, nor polished lanes so fine,

But simple joy, where fiends and laughter twine.

The salty breeze, a whisper in the air,

As bowlers gather, burdens left to care.

The wooden bowls, with gentle, rolling grace,

Seek bowls aligned, in this idyllic space.