So you’ve found a good windbreak while rambling the ridges,
And you've unscrew'd your flask, and unbox'd your sandwiches.
Now, what do you guess your main dis-advantage is?
That's right, it's the bane of all walkers: the midges,

The midges, the midges! You'll rest from them never,
They'll harry you, always, all trails, forever;
No sleeping bag tarries their certain endeavour
Whatever. Now maybe, you're wondering whether

'Twas clever to weather the chill and the drizzle,
To venture in lands where your fringe turns to frizzle,
Where Trangia stoves inescapably fizzle?
If frost doesn't bite you, no doubt the midges'll,

They'll get you, and fret you, and threaten your life,
and your friends, and your dog, and your husband or wife.
Oh, you'll soon know the meaning of 'trouble' and 'strife',
And wish that you never had heard the name 'Skye', f-

-or the sky is all scourged with a darkening shroud,
But it isn't a storm, though it moves like a cloud:
It's a mob made of midge-mass, to violence vowed,
On the trail of your CO₂ breath! You howl, "How'd

I ever end up in this hell-hole-hill place,
Repulsive repellent defacing my face?"
But you misjudge the midges; they ne'er 'fell from grace'.
They just meant to heed that old code: "leave no trace".

Aye, no trace of that walker who set out that day,
With a pretty good sense of the general way,
And a spring in your step, and a vain insect-spray,
Was ever discovered again -- so they say.