By the beach border, where the breeze
Comes freighted from the briny seas,
By sandy bar and weedy rock,
I frequent meet thy roving flock;
Now hovering o’er the bending sedge,
Now gather’d at the ocean edge;
Probing the sands for shrimps and shells,
Or worms marine in hidden cells,
A restless and inconstant band,
Forever flitting o’er the sand.
Sandpiper!—haunting every shore
Where’er the waves of ocean roar;
Old voyagers that roam the deep
Tell that your dusky pinions sweep
O’er the remotest islands set
In ocean’s emerald coronet.
Far where Siberian coasts extend,
Far where Australian borders trend,
Far up the icy Labrador,
Far where the Mexic billows pour,
Are seen thy pinions, roving bird !
Thy melancholy note is heard.
from THE LITTLE BEACH SANDERLING, by Isaac McLellan. Poems of the Rod and Gun. New York: Henry Thorpe, 1886
Sanderlings — Images by kenne
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