From end to end of the range, a strip
Of path runs straight as an arrow.
And the mountaineer who takes that path
Saves himself miles of journey
He has to plod if he crosses the moor
Through heather, peat, and burnie.
But a mountaineer he needs must be,
For, look you, right in the middle
Projects bluff Ben—with an end in ich—
Why planted there, is a riddle: