By inlet and islet and wide river reaches, By lake and lagoon I’m at home; Yet oft the far forests of blue gum and beeches About the broad ranges I roam. “There’s a strange, sombre bird with a hook in his beak.” ’Tis the little black cormorant raiding your creek. And woe to the fisher and woe to the fishes— A gourmand, I freely confess— When I come a-searching for succulent dishes, Arrayed in my funeral dress. Then the fishermen rave, and in anger they speak: “There’s a little black cormorant coming up creek!” But I’m quick and I’m cunning, as many a greyling, A blackfish, a trout or a bream Has known to his sorrow when down I go sailing To hunt him beneath the dark stream. To my cavernous maw then they all come alike, And ’tis death should the little black cormorant strike. But I am an outlaw. I’m hunted and harried. I’m banned from the havens of men. And woe is to me if too long I have tarried— A shot o’er the waters—and then, There is reason indeed for my funeral dress. For alas, here’s a little black cormorant less!