What are you doing, all flocked on Reinga?
What is your hurry—the trees are all gold?
Sweeting, we gather because we must leave you.
April is cold; April is cold!

Oh! We shall miss you, my little kuaka;
Where will you go then, my wild little one?
Over the sea to the country of Russia,
Into the sun; into the sun.

We'll nest on the steppes and put on our red kirtles,
Teaching our scared little children to fly.
Then we stretch wing for the sea and the summer,
Forth in July; forth in July.

Where will you be in the windy September?
Little kuaka, where will you be?
In China, the land of the iris and poppy,
On a white tree; on a white tree.

Will you forget us, or will you remember?
I shall remember, wherever I roam.
Look for me, sweet, on the first of December,
I shall come home; I shall come home.