In labored flight above the gums,
   Calling its harsh, discordant cry,
Our dark, funereal carriage 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 mules and voice of ghouls,
   We 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 venturesome may know
The toll 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.

"Den"
Herald, 18 April 1933, p6