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Old Black Crow

Edward S. Sorenson

In bush and hamlet, all the year,
    Where’er I chance to go.
Afar or near I’m sure to hear
    Your greeting, old black crow.

The seaside camps to far outback.
    Hot climes to sleet and snow,
And yard and shack on every track
    All know you, old black crow.

On snares designed your fun to mar
    A sly look you bestow;
You’re wiser far than most birds are,
    And cunning, old black crow.

You’re oft denounced a plaguey scamp,
    Though you do good, I know,
Where vermin ramp about the camp
    And paddock, old black crow.

You’re branded with another’s sin—
    And hence your troubles grow—
The bad that’s in your while-eyed kin,
    The raven, old black crow.

‘Most everywhere a blunderbuss
    Awaits to lay you low.
Still, though in times of fret and fuss
Your quark becomes monotonous,
    I’d miss you, old black crow.

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