If you should search all Scotland round, The mainland, skerries, and the islands, A grimmer spot could not be found Than Loch McGarry in the Highlands. Pent in by frowning mountains high, It stretches silent as the tomb, Turbid and thick its waters lie, No eye can pierce their yellow gloom. 'Twas here that on a summer day Four tourists hired a crazy wherry. No warning voices bade them stay, As they pushed out on Loch McGarry. McFarlane, Chairman of the Board, A grim hard-fisted son of lucre, His thoughts were ever on his hoard, And life a money-game, like Euchre. Bob Ainslie, late of London Town, A spruce young butterfly of fashion, A wrinkle in his dressing-gown Would rouse an apoplectic passion. John Waters, John the self-absorbed, With thoughts for ever inward bent, Complacent, self-contained, self-orbed, Wrapped in eternal self-content. Lastly coquettish Mrs. Wild, Chattering, rowdy, empty-headed; At sight of her the whole world smiled, Except the wretch whom she had wedded. Such were the four who sailed that day, To the Highlands each a stranger; Sunlit and calm the wide loch lay, With not a hint of coming danger. Drifting they watched the heather hue, The waters and the cliffs that bound them; The air was still, the sky was blue, Deceitful peace lay all around them. McFarlane pondered on the stocks, John Waters on his own perfection, Bob Ainslie's thoughts were on his socks, And Mrs. Wild's on her complexion. When sudden--oh, that dreadful scream! That cry from panic fear begotten! The boat is gaping in each seam, The worn-out planks are old and rotten. With two small oars they work and strain, A long mile from the nearer shore They cease--their efforts are in vain; She's sinking fast, and all is o'er. The yellow water, thick as pap, Is crawling, crawling to the thwarts, And as they mark its upward lap, So fear goes crawling up their hearts. Slowly, slowly, thick as pap, The creeping yellow waters rise; Like drowning mice within a trap, They stare around with frantic eyes. Ah, how clearly they could see Every sin and shame and error! How they vowed that saints they'd be, If delivered from this terror! How they squirmed and how they squealed! How they shouted for assistance! How they fruitlessly appealed To the shepherds in the distance! How they sobbed and how they moaned, As the waters kept encroaching! How they wept and stormed and groaned, As they saw their fate approaching! And they vowed each good resolve Should be permanent as granite, Never, never, to dissolve, Firm and lasting like our planet. See them sit, aghast and shrinking! Surely it could not be true! "Oh, have mercy! Oh, we're sinking! Oh, good Lord, what _shall_ we do!"