

THE TRIBE OF THE PLOVER 



IN the preceding paper I alluded to a 

 Galloway rhyme 



" Whaup, Whimbrel, an' Plover, 

 Whan these whustle the worst o't 's over." 



By this time the neatherd by Loch Ken 

 and the shepherd among the wilds of Kirk- 

 cudbright, like their kin from the Sussex 

 downs, to the last sliabh or maolin Sutherland, 

 may repeat the rhyme with safety. 'The 

 worst o't 's over.' For to-day the curlews cry 

 above the moors, the whimbrel's warning note 

 echoes down the long sands o' Sol way, and 

 everywhere, from the salt bent by the coasts 

 to the loneliest inlands, the lapwing wails. 

 The Tribe of the Plover is in the land once 

 more, and so Spring is with us. Not, perhaps, 

 the Spring of the poets, who look (as Ailil in 

 the old Celtic tale) under boughs of white 



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