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 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.