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The moorcock flew straight across the meadow to another withy-bed, and then disappeared.

And here is a moorcock's; and this—I should know it among a thousand—it's a lapwing's.

Oh, oh! the dark, the dark, and never more the sun shining on the bonny blooms of dark Darruach, never mair the white lambs running, and the gleam on the wing of the moorcock.

You would like it, tramping knee-deep in the heather, to see the moorcock rise whirring at your feet; you would like to set sail with the fisher folk after the silver herring.

I should think something will happen—Sir Bingo is a sure shot at a moorcock.”