from Wiktionary, Creative Commons Attribution/Share-Alike License
- v. Present participle of popple.
from The Century Dictionary and Cyclopedia
- n. An agitation of the surface waters of the ocean, moderate in character and without uniformity.
Sorry, no etymologies found.
Indiaman bobbed up and down on it in the cold morning; you could hear the wash of water poppling on to her rudder, with her running gear blown out in a bend; and Missus Collins thought they'd never get up the dirty black sides of the vessel, as she called 'em.
Without the wood a sudden shower was falling down from heaven, drenching anew wet pastures, thinning the mud upon brown lanes, poppling upon the washed highway.
The sound of waters filled the air, dropping, poppling, splashing, trickling, dripping from leaves to earth, falling from bank to rills below, gurgling under gate-paths, lapping against the tree-trunks and little ridge piles in the brooks, and at last sweeping with a hushed content into the bosom of Thames.
When the light wind struck across the surface of the river it seemed as if the water were pelted with falling jewels; the osiers bowed and sighed as the breeze ran along their tops; and, here and there, a spirt of shaken dewdrops described a flashing arc, and fell poppling into the stream.
Tolbooth --- ay, they will hae a merry sail ower Inchkeith, and ower a 'the bits o' bonny waves that are poppling and plashing against the rocks in the gowden glimmer o 'the moon, ye ken.
I've sate under it mony a bonnie summer afternoon, when it hung its gay garlands ower the poppling water.
Indeed, considering that they had set out fatigued, and had now been sixteen hours out of the eighteen since they left the ship, pulling in a poppling sea, it was no wonder that their strength and spirits should be worn out for want of sleep and refreshments.
its but a blackened rotten stump nowIve sat under it mony a bonnie summer afternoon, when it hung its gay garlands ower the poppling waterIve sat there, and (elevating her voice) Ive held you on my knee, Henry Bertram, and sung ye sangs of the auld barons and their bloody warsIt will neer be green again, and Meg Merrilies will never sing sangs mair, be they blithe or sad.
I’ve sate under it mony a bonnie summer afternoon, when it hung its gay garlands ower the poppling water.
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