New Zealand Bird Songs New Zealand Bird Songs [electronic resource] Eileen Duggan Creation of machine-readable version Peter Whiteford Creation of digital images Peter Whiteford Conversion to TEI.2-conformat markup Samantha Callaghan ca. 45 kilobytes New Zealand Electronic Text Centre Wellington, New Zealand Modern English, DugNewZ

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Harry H. Tombs Ltd Wellington, New Zealand 1929 Source copy consulted: Victoria University of Wellington Library, PR9699 D866 N

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NZETC MADS authority file NZETC Subject Headings 1929 English Verse 21:17:54, Tuesday 7 August 2007editorialNZETCText-proofing of a sample of the text21:17:54, Tuesday 7 August 2007editorialNZETCConversion to TEI.2-conformat markup21:17:54, Tuesday 7 August 2007editorialNZETCAdding scripted markup21:17:54, Tuesday 7 August 2007editorialNZETCAddition of encodingDesc21:17:54, Tuesday 7 August 2007editorialNZETCAddition of bibls21:17:54, Tuesday 7 August 2007editorialNZETCAssembled all images21:17:54, Tuesday 7 August 2007editorialNZETCCreation of derivative images21:17:54, Tuesday 7 August 2007editorialNZETCValidation of TEI21:17:54, Tuesday 7 August 2007editorialNZETCValidation of names21:17:54, Tuesday 7 August 2007editorialNZETCConversion to Unicode (utf-8)21:17:54, Tuesday 7 August 2007editorialNZETCPromotion to production21:17:54, Tuesday 7 August 2007editorialNZETCAddition of text to access control21:17:54, Tuesday 7 August 2007editorialNZETCHarvest into Topic Map21:17:54, Tuesday 7 August 2007editorialNZETCChecking of text using browser21:17:54, Tuesday 7 August 2007editorialNZETCAddition of text to corpus21:17:54, Tuesday 7 August 2007editorialNZETCAddition of text to Library Catalogue14:47:15, Tuesday 23 September 2008editorialNZETCMake text available on NZETC website

Front Cover

Title Page

New Zealand Bird Songs by Eileen Duggan Printed and published by Harry H. Tombs Ltd at their Registered Printing Works 22 Wingfield St., Wellington, New Zealand Foreword.

These do not pretend to be literature. They are simply rhymes on their birds for the children of our country. The originals appeared in the “Sun,” Christchurch, “The Month,” Auckland, and the “Times,” Wellington. The series owes its existence to the suggestion of a valued friend, and to the interest of C. A. Marris and Percy Crisp, who are always ready to help any national and literary effort in New Zealand.

 Contents.

The Tui 13 The Kotuku 14 A Child's Rhyme 16 The Legend of the Cuckoo 17 The Huia 18 The Kea 19 The Pipiwharauroa 20 The Bittern 22 The Gannet 23 The Moa 24 The Weka 26 The Kakapo 27 The Silver-eye 28 The Shag 29 The Kokako 30 The Wood Pigeon 32 The Kiwi 34 The Song of the Kingfisher 36 The Mako-Mako 37 The War of the Birds 38 The First Night 40 The Hihi 42 The Tiwai Waka 44

The Tui Suppose, sweet eyes, you went into a distant country Where these young islands are nothing but a word; Suppose you never came again by Terawhiti: Would you remember and be faithful to your bird? And when they boasted there of thrushes, larks and linnets, Would you hold up a stubborn little hand, And say: “Not so! I know a sweeter singer Than any bird that cries across your land!” Would you, remembering, tell them of the Tui? Wild, wild and blinding is his lightest note. They—they never heard him, swinging on a flax-flower, Mad with the honey and the noon in his throat. They say that in the old days stately rangatiras Slit his tongue, and made him speak instead of sing; We would rather see him shining and gold-dusted, From a morning kowhai flinging wide the spring. So, my little sweet eyes, if you go a-sailing Out beyond Pencarrow, and come not again, Hold unto the southlands in the pure October, When the Tui's sweetness ripples through the rain. The Kotuku (White Crane) Lo, a Maori lad is singing, On a mellow morning: “Where is the wanderer? Where is the Kotuku? Where is the slow wing? We are lonely in Waikato! Are you down by old Wairoa? Are you over the sea? Often says my father, 'Sometime you will see him,' But I have not seen you! Where are you, Run-away? Where are you, Here-and-there? Where is the Heron, The White Crane, the lost bird? Lost is the Heron, lost, lost the Kotuku. He Kotuku rerenga tahi!” Lo, a Maori man is singing, On another morning: “Home is the Kotuku! Home the Silver Heron! Home is the slow wing! We are proud in old Waikato, We have heard a slow, slow flapping, And the bird of love is come. Often said my father, 'Sometime you will see him!” Now at last I see you. Welcome home, O Run-away! Welcome, little Leave-the-Land! Haeremai the Heron, The White Crane, the lost bird. Home is the Heron, home, home the Kotuku, He Kotuku rerenga tahi!” A Child's Rhyme

(The Godwits assemble at Reinga before their great flight.)

What are you doing, all flocked on Reinga? What is your hurry—the trees are all gold? Sweeting, we gather because we must leave you. April is cold; April is cold! Oh! We shall miss you, my little kuaka; Where will you go then, my wild little one? Over the sea to the country of Russia, Into the sun; into the sun. We'll nest on the steppes and put on our red kirtles, Teaching our scared little children to fly. Then we stretch wing for the sea and the summer, Forth in July; forth in July. Where will you be in the windy September? Little kuaka, where will you be? In China, the land of the iris and poppy, On a white tree; on a white tree. Will you forget us, or will you remember? I shall remember, wherever I roam. Look for me, sweet, on the first of December, I shall come home; I shall come home. The Legend of the Cuckoo Young Christ went groaning up to Quarantana, With His tall head flung up against the sky. Spring cried to Him from every bush and bramble. He passed her blindly by. Oh, every tree was given up to blossom, And every bee burred in the broken lane, But as He passed, the little bees and blossoms Were still with love and pain. And every bird bent sideways in its sorrow, And whispered softly to Him as He went, “My brightness, are you black and lost in anguish, My sweetness, are you spent?” Yea, every bird except the careless Cuckoo, That, working on, in flurry and in fret, Hollowed a nest, and cried its own name over, Nor saw His eyes were wet. Young Christ came smiling down from Quarantana, He blessed each bird along the broken lane, And said, “My little pity, it is over. My gladness, sing again.” And then He turned and looked upon the Cuckoo. It gave one cry and flew off to the west. Since then it may not cease its haunted flying, Nor ever build a nest. The Huia Where is it now that once was high? Where is it now, where is its wing? Where is the Prince of the leaves and sky? Where is the King? Where is its mate of the curving bill? Where is it now, where is it seen? Where is the Princess of tree and hill? Where is the Queen? Pledge of rank on a chieftain's brow, Plume of black with a milky bar, Under what sky is it dreaming now? Under what star? Oh! it was sweet, as sweet as a child, Kind to its mate of the curving beak; Where shall we hear its fluting wild, Where shall we seek? Where is it now that once was high? Where is it now, where is its wing? Where is the Prince of the leaves and sky? Where is the King? The Kea The snow is deep along the pass, The Josef ice is blue, No bird could bear the bitter cold, Save you, save only you. Save you, oh friendly, wayward thing, So shy, and yet so bold, Are not the little ice-flints sharp? Are not the ridges cold? But you who are so fair to man, Why do you swoop and leap? Why do you tear the little lambs, And score the trembling sheep? Ah, call your flocks and keep the ice For there you do not sin. Forget the farmyard and the fleece, Go not the field within. There is no lark upon the snow, There is no thrush above. It is your kingdom; tarry there, If you would have our love. The Pipiwharauroa (Shining Cuckoo) I remember once in Para how I heard your mother calling, Calling “Pipi-wha-rau-roa” from a poplar by the river, Crying slowly the one word. And I burnt my eyes with gazing. Still I see the poplars shiver, Still I hear the little runnels down the folded gully falling, But I never saw the bird! But I heard what you have heard not, for I heard your mother crying, Crying out of Spring the Leafy, Spring the Slender, Spring the Comer, Of the manuka and dew. Who would dream that in her treason she would follow after Summer, With her nestlings unattended, gaily after Summer flying, And no thought at all of you! Why, then, foolish little fledglings, do you ever seek to follow? What old meekness makes you follow that strange one that gave you over, Nor remembered you a day? Are the seas to you as homely as our fields of curling clover? What old memory sends you blindly over hill and over hollow? Do you never doubt the way? But I lose my time in wonder, for you, too, in Spring returning, Will cry “Pipi-wha-rau-roa” from the poplar by the river, Loving Spring in every word. You will cheat the little warbler, and to other shore lines turning, You will flyaway forgetting, with your careless wings a-quiver. Fly, then, faithless little bird. The Bittern O..lo..ho, and O..lo..ho! It is the Bittern! O..lo..ho, and O..lo..ho, along the twilight, “Oh,” he says, “the swamp, the swamp is cold, and lonely; I am all alone, alone among the rushes. I am drum-drum-drumming up the legion, What if ghosts came creeping through the raupo! Ah, the moon is low, and dry, and bright! O..lo...ho! O..lo..ho! Who is coming? Who is coming? Who is coming? I am brave, I am braver than the Kiwi, But it's hard to be a bird of the night!” O..lo..ho, and O..lo..ho, my poor old Bittern, O..lo..ho, and O..lo..ho, my bird of sorrow, Though you thunder in the hour of desolation, Though your little drum goes beating through the silence, Only ghosts are starting from the rushes, And the moon is wild, and dry, and bright. O..lo..ho! O..lo..ho! Who is coming? Who is coming? Who is coming? You would love to be a leader, little Bittern, But it's hard to be a bird of the night! The Gannet Gannet, I see you, out on Kidnappers, Grey like the water and white like the foam, Oh, if I had the luck, I would be the Gannet, I would be travelling, and you would be at home. Oh, I have seen you lying on the waters, All I could see was white herds, and white herds, A sea of sleepy Gannets—or a sea of lilies? Shining and shaking—a meadow of birds. Gannet, O Gannet, which is the dearest? Sky, land, and water—you have all three! “My wing for the sky, my breast for the seashore, But my heart, oh, my heart, for the wandering sea!” The Moa 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?” 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. The Weka 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. The Kakapo 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! The Silver-Eye In Brittany, about the time of milking, They call the cows along the tinkling twilight, “Ho, Flower, O Idleness, O Pail of Plenty, Ho, Feet of Silver!” So we within a land as blue and gentle, Give little tender names to things that please us. Such name we have for you, O little ringed one, O Eye of Silver! My little Silver-eye, the boughs are empty. The leaves have gone the way of leaves in winter, But you go glimmering across the branches. What faith upholds you? Have you a hint that Spring has left its gateway? You fly as if you bore the freight of Summer, As if you dripped from little wing and shoulder, A spilth of blossom! The Shag

(For E. C.)

Wanaka, mother of Clutha, Says to the Shag in her shallows: “Back, you thief of the twilight, Highwayman of the headland, After your line flew down, A nest in Hell was empty.” Wanaka, little old woman, Wrinkles and rocks and mutters: “Out of the land forever, Out of the sky forever, Back to the blight of God, In the land of hungry waters!” Dreamily answers the bandit: “My head is sold for silver, But God, where all is gentle, May weary of much meekness, May turn unto the outlaw, May bless the Shag, the sinner.” The Kokako (Blue-wattled Crow) Listen, Rosaleen. Out in the islands, Lived a chief called Kupe, who was proud, Once in chase of Muturangi's wheke He by fortune found the Long White Cloud. In his long canoe enseamed with sinnet Past Te Kawa Kawa on he came, There his daughters paused and plaited garlands Of the leaf that gave the Bay its name. Into this wide harbour came they softly. “Ah,” said Matiu, “two islands small.” “One I name for thee,” said Kupe, laughing, “One for Makaro, thy sister tall.” Ere they sailed again for their own island They looked long on leaf and flower and loam, Their dark eyes went searching, searching, searching, Then they bore the tidings home. There unto the tribe they told their story, “But,” said Toto, frowning in the sun, “In that land of blossoms, bays, and rivers, Of its men-folk saw you not a one?” “None saw I,” said Kupe, after silence, “No man saw I there by shore or hill, But I saw a little Tiwai-waka, And a Weka tilted up at me his bill.” “But,” said Toto, wrinkling in his wonder, “Did the land lie silent, dead, and lone?” “Only one bird heard I through the stillness, A Kokako Ko-ing on a stone!’” In the Kauwae-Raro you will find it, Find great Kupe's true and simple word, How he heard the call of the Kokako, And no other crying bird. Little heart, be proud of the Kokako, For it is our own, and very old, May it Ko for ever on the ridges, May it Ko until the sun turns cold. The Wood Pigeon

This bird is now protected.

 “O little sobbing Pigeon, Why do you moan and moan? Coo-a, O coo-a, coo-a! Like some old crying crone. O breast of soft, soft silver, O plumes of summer blue, Lo, winter, summer, autumn All gave their best to you. But spring, Ah, spring forgot you. She fled by you unseen, With blue, and bronze, and silver, Do you regret the green? “Not for the spring I'm weeping: Sweet are the berries then, Ah, sweet the shining miro! My fear is all for men. And worse than men, the quail-hawk, That bird that keeps no law. I fear its rushing pinion, I fear its crushing claw.” * * * Ah, little sobbing Pigeon, Sob low, low, low! God cannot rest in Heaven, When you are crying so. O breast of soft, soft silver, O plumes of summer blue, O leaf-burnt bird of autumn, He comes to comfort you. The Kiwi Under the roots of a tree, Hidden, oh hidden deep, Safe from the prying sun, Huddled the Kiwis sleep. But when the night flies down, And stars slip through the pool, Out from the roots they creep, Into the twilight cool. And the oldest bird of the tribe, Calls them before his face, And tells from his proud old beak The wonder of their race. “Children, who now are small, Hearken, oh hearken well, For ye are kin of kings, Hatched of a mighty shell. Dwarfs of a giant strain, Leaves of a smitten tree, Shards of a dying star, Kin of the Moa, we. So when ye thrid the swamp, Cool on the twilight term, Spearing the secret earth, For stir of the hidden worm. Remember our lonely pride, So old that no man knows Where or whence we are come, Old as the wind that blows. Old as the twilight sky, Hearken, oh Kiwis, well, For ye are kin of kings, Hatched of a mighty shell.” The Song of the Kingfisher Why do you sit, so dreamily, dreamily, Kingfisher over the stream, Silent your beak, and silent the water, What is your dream? A falling, a flashing of blue and of silver, Child, he is deep in the stream, Prey in his beak, and fear in the water— That was his dream! The Mako-Mako (Bell-bird) He went between the trees at dawn, When all the bush its secret tells, The air broke into flying notes, The flurried wind was rich with bells. It ceased, and one bird sang alone, So slow, so strong! So slow, so strong! Could any ear forget that stroke? So sweet, so long! So sweet, so long! Next year he, marching, heard again A wind of bells blow from the dawn, The others saw a Flemish spire, But to the bush his heart was drawn. He heard again the Bell-bird sing, So slow, so strong! So slow, so strong! Could ear alive forget that stroke? So sweet, so long! So sweet, so long! The War of the Birds Said the Shag of the green river to the Shag of the grey sea: “Come now into the swamplands and eat my food with me. The sea is cold and salty; it gives with grudging hand, But sweet the fare and meet the fare that stirs up on the land.” Then the Shag of the green river led the Shag of the grey sea Where the toi-tois plume their heads, and eels slip lazily. The sea-bird dived and caught an eel and ate with clucking note. “Now bring it back,” the land-bird said. It glided up its throat. The sea-Shag then was angry, as angry as could be. He vowed a vengeance on the bird that mocked the shining sea. He led him to the ocean and bade him dive therein. The land-Shag, swooping, saw below a sharp and shining fin. The sea-Shag watched him eat it, nodding a slow old head, “And now, my doughty land-bird, just bring that back,” he said. “Oh, easy!” said the boaster—in innocence he lied, Its bitter fin-points pierced him, he gave one cry, and died. And all his angry kinsfolk came wailing up the sky; The air was black with pinions—a gale of birds blew by. They fell upon the sea-birds, and battle was begun; They darkened land and ocean; they blotted out the sun. They died upon the water, they died upon the sand; But others came in hosting from ocean and from land. And who were there the victors there is not one that knows, Except the secret waters, and the wise wind that blows. But still at nights they tell it, in hushed and solemn words— Wing fighting wing in tumult—the battle of the birds. The First Night In the deep December night, When each sandalled wind was still, To the listening ear of earth Spoke the Bell-bird from the hill: “O my bubbling peal of bells, O my little melody, Let me chime Your coming in, Let me bless You from a tree!” Said the Hihi, glowing gold: “With my stitch that comes and goes, O my naked little Christ, Let me stitch Your bits of clothes!” Said the Bittern, booming deep: “Little Soldier, in that night When the spears shall crowd you thick, Let me drum Your foes to flight.” And the Tern, with sailor wing: “Little Salt, Who'll choose to be Friend of all poor fishermen, Take a blessing from the sea.” Sang the Tui—God, how clear— “Little Love, oh, come away! Come into the bush to-night; We shall love You more than they.” So into the quiet dripped The great tender, fluting words, And a cross of stars burned blue At the blessing of the birds. The Hihi (Stitch-bird) “In the days when I was young,” said Topine Te Mamaku, “Every little bough was bent with birds.” Very old, very tired was Topine Te Mamaku. Hear his words. “You have seen the Kahu Kiwi, The down of the Kiwi, On a rangatira, proud and bold, But oh, had you seen the Kahu Hihi, Oh, had you seen the mat of gold!” “It was like the western sky,” said Topine Te Mamaku, “It was like a kowhai burning on the tree. For the down of the Hihi,” said Topine Te Mamaku, “Is as yellow as the comb of the bee.” “Ah, stately the Kiwi, The down of the Kiwi, Though its hue is dark, and dun and cold, But oh, had you seen the Kahu Hihi, Oh, had you seen the cloth of gold!” “You will seldom see it now,” said Topine Te Mamaku, “It has dipped its little wings in the stain of the sky, And its down is cloth of gold,” said Topine Te Mamaku With a sigh. “You have seen the Kahu Kiwi, The royal old Kiwi, But there was a prouder mat of old. Like the dust of the flax-flower was the Kahu Hihi, Oh, had you seen the cloak of gold!” The Tiwai Waka (Fantail) See! In the Kauwae-Raro, O small dancing bird, Old Kupe says you touched him, We have his stately word. And what said Kupe of you, O small bird of grace? He said: “The Tiwai Waka Kept flitting past my face!” O little Tiwai Waka, O kind little wing! I've seen a woman hunt you, With haste and muttering. She said it was unlucky, She drove you out with cries, For when a fantail flies within A son or neighbour dies. Unlucky! It's an honour, A bird flying through. He had the whole sweet countryside, And yet he came to you