Lo, my little torment,
Think it, if you can,
Once a bird was living,
Taller than a man.

But the land grew hungry,
And the flock flew forth,
Like great ships in tumult,
Blowing from the north.

Spring was in the South lands,
Trees with blossoms bowed,
When they on the water
Found the Long White Cloud.

Oh, the days were sweet here
In our dear, warm land,
Lazy, lazy grew they,
Till they scarce would stand.

Said God to the Moa:
“Now for many springs
I have watched you walking,
I will take your wings!”

Said the foolish Moa:
“Take them, I'll not cry.
With the land to tread on
Who would need the sky?”

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But their bones grew feeble,
Rotted in the sun,
By the swamps and rivers
Died they one by one.

Came canoes in plenty,
Breaking the still sea,
Staring cried the Moa:
“What may these things be?”

Ah! escape, ye Moas,
Fly, oh fly, oh fly!
But their wings had vanished,
They had lost the sky.