The Owl is silent, dark, and still,
And so, out in the ancient countries—
How strange they seem, those old far lying countries—
They hold him bird of wisdom and of will.

They never saw the Kakapo,
That, like the squirrel, laughs at winter.
Now has an owl the sense to laugh at winter?
Our bird is thrifty—they, what do they know?

And if their owls are then so wise,
Have they been known to meet in conclave?
Our Kakapos hold high and secret conclave,
And summon parliaments if need arise.

Oh, they may keep their haughty little Owl.
Our bird is sweet to little children,
Friendly, and frank, and clumsy, like the children,
What friendship is there in an owl?

Then live, oh live, old tumbling Kakapo,
Our mossy roots are yours, are yours forever,
Our trees, our bush, our banks are yours forever,
Live on and leave us not, O Kakapo!