'Tis the voice of the birds as they southward fly.
From sea to sea, as if marking the time,
Comes the beat of wings from the long, dark line.
O strong, steady wing, with your rhythmic beat,
Flying from cold to the summertime heat;
O, keen, glancing eye, that can see so far,
Do you guide your flight by the northern star?
The birds from the North are crossing the moon,
And the southland knows they are coming soon.
With gladness and freedom and music gone,