"Oh, well," said the young man, with a laugh, "you know a student in Germany must sing whether he can or not. And I learned there to smash out something like an accompaniment also." And he went to the piano without more ado and did smash out an accompaniment. And if his voice was rather harsh?—well, we should have called it raucous in the case of East Wind, but we only called it manly and strenuous when it was Angus Sutherland who sang. And it was a manly song, too—a fitting song for our last night on shore, the words hailing from the green woods of Fuinary, the air an air that had many a time been heard among the western seas. It was the song of the Biorlinn[#] that he sang to us; we could hear the brave chorus and the splash of the long oars:— _Send the biorlinn on careering!_ _Cheerily and all together—_ _Ho, ro, clansmen!_ _A long, strong pull together—_ _Ho, ro, clansmen!_ _Give her way and show her wake_ _’Mid showering spray and curling eddies—_ _Ho, ro, clansmen!_ _A long, strong pull together—_ _Ho, ro, clansmen!_ Do we not hear now the measured stroke in the darkness of the morning? The water springs from her bows; one by one the headlands are passed. But lo! the day is breaking; the dawn will surely bring a breeze with it; and then the sail of the gallant craft will bear her over the seas:— _Another cheer, our Isle appears!_ _Our biorlinn bears her on the faster—_ _Ho, ro, clansmen!_ _A long, strong pull together—_ _Ho, ro, clansmen!_ _Ahead she goes! the land she knows!_ _Behold! the snowy shores of Canna—_ _Ho, ro, clansmen!_ _A long, strong pull together—_ _Ho, ro, clansmen!_ A long, strong pull together indeed: who could resist joining in the thunder of the chorus? And we were bound for Canna, too: this was our last night on shore. [#] _Biorlinn_—that is, a rowing-boat. The word is pronounced _byurlen_. The song, which in a measure imitates the rhythm peculiar to Highland poetry—consisting in a certain repetition of the same vowel sounds—is the production of Dr. Macleod, of Morven. And here, for the benefit of any one who minds such things, is a rough draft of the air, arranged by a most charming young lady, who, however, says she would much rather die than have her name mentioned:— [Illustration: Music fragments] Our last night on shore. In such circumstances one naturally has a glance round at the people with whom one is to be brought into such close contact for many and many a day. But in this particular case, what was the use of speculating, or grumbling, or remonstrating? There is a certain household that is ruled with a rod of iron. And if the mistress of that household chose to select as her summer companions a "shilpit bit thing," and a hard-headed, ambitious Scotch student, and a parochial magnate haunted by a heresy-case, how dared one object? There is such a thing as peace and quietness.