O..lo..ho, and O..lo..ho! It is the Bittern!
O..lo..ho, and O..lo..ho, along the twilight,
“Oh,” he says, “the swamp, the swamp is cold, and lonely;
I am all alone, alone among the rushes.
I am drum-drum-drumming up the legion,
What if ghosts came creeping through the raupo!
Ah, the moon is low, and dry, and bright!
O..lo...ho! O..lo..ho!
Who is coming? Who is coming? Who is coming?
I am brave, I am braver than the Kiwi,
But it's hard to be a bird of the night!”

O..lo..ho, and O..lo..ho, my poor old Bittern,
O..lo..ho, and O..lo..ho, my bird of sorrow,
Though you thunder in the hour of desolation,
Though your little drum goes beating through the silence,
Only ghosts are starting from the rushes,
And the moon is wild, and dry, and bright.
O..lo..ho! O..lo..ho!
Who is coming? Who is coming? Who is coming?
You would love to be a leader, little Bittern,
But it's hard to be a bird of the night!