IN laboured flight above the gums,
    Calling its harsh, discordant cry,
Our dark, funereal cortege comes
    To rest a while in tree tops high;
Then, flashing many a sable coat,
With heavy flappings, on we float
        To some far sky.

Garments of mutes and voice of ghouls,
    We live live the nomad’s life apart
And seem withal sad, gloomy fowls;
    Yet are we gay enough at heart
As thro’ the sweeter, rarer air
We seek our shrewdly hidden lair
        With cunning art.

None but the eagle knows our ways,
    None but the ventursome may know
The toil of our domestic days.
    In solitudes where few men go
’Neath the vast dome of heaven’s tent
We seek and win our full content
        In sun and snow.

Scarce are we of your humdrum earth,
    Yet know the wide skies’ every mood;
In fastnesses that gave us birth
    The spoiler may not yet intrude.
Where hills are high and paths are hard
The grim bush sentinels still guard
        Our solitude.