Father and son, both broad, muscular highlanders, dressed in kilt or plaid of
Sinclair tartan, holding onto each other, endeavouring to keep on the path
that is within a foot of the perpendicular precipitous rock. "United they
stand, divided they fall!" At the top of their voices they are yelling and
singing, on their way home, the refrain that they last sung at the chiefs
house, - "For he's a jolly good fellow! For he's a jolly good fellow!! For
he's a jolly good fellow!!!"......and then with a sudden lurch, John Brymmes,
elder, disappears over the cliff, drops down and bounds off from each
projecting crag right to a protruding rock 400ft below. His son falls flat,
and, rolling over to the edge of the cliff, looks down into the gloomy
depths. The wind is howling and the sea, with 50ft waves, is lashing the
rocks beneath; the spray is leaping often to the very top. The moon
occasionally comes out, and the blackness in places is intensified. "Faither!
Faither!" cries the son, and, hoping without hope, he looks and listens. Yes!
His practised ear detects the finish of the refrain "Which nobody can deny"
in his father's voice. His son hurries down and finds his father, who says he
has lost his bonnet. "Are ye hurt, Faither?" "Naw, I wis comin' doon
whateffer." Together they wend their way over sand and rocks, blaming the
seaweed for being so slippery. At last, they reach their hut, and, rolling
away the big flagstone, which does service for a door, they are greeted with
the words: "Is that you John?" said by his wife within. John has been trying
to sober up a bit for the last hundred yards. "Yes! it's me!"says John, "Whae
- hic - whae was ye expectin?"
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