I hae sailed wi' a lad--they ca'd him Sandy Gabart; he saw ane, shure eneueh, an' shure eneueh it was the end of him.

We were seeven days oot frae the Clyde--a sair wark we had had--gaun north wi' seeds an' braws an' things for the Macleod.

We had got in ower near under the Cutchull'ns, an' had just gane about by soa, an' were off on a lang tack, we thocht would maybe hauld as far's Copnahow.

I mind the nicht weel; a mune smoored wi' mist; a fine gaun breeze upon the water, but no steedy; an'-- what nane o' us likit to hear--anither wund gurlin' owerheid, amang thae fearsome, auld stane craigs o' the Cutchull'ns.

Weel, Sandy was forrit wi' the jib sheet; we couldnae see him for the mains'l, that had just begude to draw, when a' at ance he gied a skirl.