By inlet and islet and wide river reaches,
   By lake and lagoon I'm at home,
Yet oft' the far forests of blue-gum and beeches
   About the broad ranges I roam,
"There's a strange, sombre bird with a hook in his beak."
'Tis the little black cormorant raiding your creek.
 
And woe to the fisher and woe to the fishes --
   A gourmand I freely confess
When I come a-searching for succulent dishes,
   Arrayed in my funeral dress,
Then the fishermen rave, and in anger they speak:
"There's a little black cormorant coming up creek!"
 
But I'm quick and I'm cunning, as many a greyling,
   A blackfish, a trout or a bream
Has known to his sorrow when down I go sailing
   To hunt him beneath the dark stream.
To my cavernous maw then they all come alike,
And 'tis death should the little black cormorant strike.
 
But I am an outlaw.  I'm hunted and harried,
   I'm banned from the havens of men.
And woe is to me if to long I have tarried --
   A shot o'er the waters -- and then,
There is reason indeed for my funeral dress,
For, alas, here's a little black cormorant less1

"Den"
Herald, 3 March 1933, p4