Weka, O Weka, O little brown Weka,
Why do they hate you, and cry on your name?
They tell me you're sly and you swoop without warning,
Your wings have no flight, and your beak has no shame.

You're gay as a gossip and vain as a man-child,
You snatch at a bright thing and bear it away.
You sing with your mate when all good birds are silent,
You're gallant by night and you're sidelong by day.

But it's my pity your footprints grow rarer;
Little brown mischief, don't slip from our sight.
Wicked and sweet are your eyes in the twilight,
Wistful and wild is your cry in the night.