SONG.

Air-"Ten Thousand Miles Away." In Scottish Students' Song Book.

I SING of a Club, and a jolly good Club,

And its Members frank and free,

Professors and Proctors-Divines and Doctors

And Duffers like you and me :—

And the singular thing about which I sing

Is the unanimitee-ee-ee

Of all and each to practise and preach

The creed of the S.M.C.

Chorus.

Sing Ho! my boys, Yo Ho! A climbing we will go!

For climb we must or else we'll rust!

We're off to the hills and the snow-ow-ow!

We're off by the morning train, to climb with might and main!

The sad sea-level's no good for a revel,

So we're for the hills again.

In our gallant band, you can understand,
There are Parsons two or three:

"You must mend your ways ere you

end

your days,"

Say these excellent men to we—
"Or the hill tops high are as near the sky
As you ever are likely to be-ee-ee.

You can help your souls with your Alpine poles
In the ranks of the S.M.C."

Said a famous Judge, "I rule it's fudge

That the Bench and the Bar and ye
Should work all day whilst we might play:
And I'm not going to work," said he—
"I don't care a fig for my gown and my wig:
It's the rope and the axe for me-ee-ee,

And we'll settle disputes with our hob-nailed boots
At the Meets of the S.M.C."

Now who would scoff at a learned Prof. :

When he says sententiousl-ee:

"Twixt brawn and brains I've been at pains
To judge impartial-ee.

If a man goes strong for the whole day long
On the hills-he's the man for me-ee-ee.

For his brains are bright and his brawn's all right,
And he's fit for the S.M.C."

Said a Doctor sage,

"In this modern age

I can speak with certaint-ee:

If potions and pills won't cure your ills
Then moribund you must be.

But the last resource of the clinical course
That's known to the Facultee-ee-ee,
Is a jolly good climb in the winter time.
With the boys of the S.M.C."

The Merchant stout says, "There's no doubt
The pursuit of £. s. d.,

With its toil and strife, does shorten life,

And cause obesit-ee.

So my money bags I shall tear to rags,
For the best kind of bag for me-ee-ee
Is my old rücksack going bump on my back
When I'm out with the S.M.C."

Now already this song is much too long,
So here's finalit-ee.

I've proved in rhyme you all must climb
If happy you would be.

For all delights belong to the heights

Without any doubt-you see-ee-ee

I give you the toast to please you most,
The toast of the S.M.C.

J. G. STOTT.

ME

ARDGOUR.

BY J. H. BELL.

To all who know the district, "Ardgour" and "Garbh Bheinn" are words which recall memories of some of the

best of Scottish Highland country. The seven miles of road between the pier at Corran and the foot of Glen Iubhair are a continual delight. The road winds in and out of the small bays along the shore and up and down over projecting spurs of rock, with rocky cliffs overhanging it on the one side and the water of the loch in places straight below on the other. After rounding such a rocky spur the road runs along the edge of a birch wood with bright grass fields like lawns sloping down to a sandy beach. The continual change of angle along the winding road gives varied views of the loch and of the mountains on its eastern side from Ben Nevis and the Mamore Hills to Bidean nam Bian and Beinn a Bheithir and down to the mountains of Mull.

When going to Garven the road is left about a quarter of a mile beyond the seventh milestone from Corran, and it is customary to leave bicycles beside a big boulder with a tree growing on it. There is then a tramp of about two miles up Glen Iubhair before the view of the cliffs of Garven is opened up. In wet weather the glen is rather swampy. At first there is a path on the slope of the hill on the eastern side. After a few hundred yards it leaves the stream, keeping above the swampy ground. Higher up where the stream passes through a gorge the path becomes indefinite and it is better to follow the stream closely if only for the sight of some glorious green pools. For about a mile and a half the glen rises very little. When the angle becomes rather steeper there are some great slabs in the bed of the burn, which make an easy highway for a man with sharp nails in his boots. After walking for about two miles up the glen the stream forks, one branch coming down from the little corrie of Garven. From this point, if the weather is clear,