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Updated: May 21, 2025
They went on. Their waders and oilskins scarcely showed against the sand, and the murmur of the current drowned the noise they made. As they came near the bend the calling of the geese got louder, there was a creaking beat of wings and some of the harsh cries had a different note. "Grey-lag," said Jim. "Another lot is coming up. They'll fly across to the marsh when the tide moves them."
"I'll hand ye," replied Claverhouse, wi' a smile on his bonny, sad face, "Ye'll tak the high road an' I'll tak the low road, An' I'll be in North Tyne afore ye. "So up an' tak wing, my grey-lag goose," he says, "an' wing your way straight to the North Tyne water." "Then here's a last toast," cries Lag, holdin' up his bicker fu' o' wine.
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