The Whooping Crane.

Hark! to the sweet toned trumpet call from the blue dome of the sky,
There's a message for all sportsmen in that far off plaintive cry,
From a remnant of a species that is calling for a mate,
But its answer is an echo, and it seems to say, "too-o-o-late."

Look! away up there, 'tis circling in and out among the clouds,
That were once alive with whoopers, but are nothing now but shrouds,
That enveloped its ancestors when they used to congregate,
And bugle notes to lady cranes, that were nothing like, "too-o-o-late."

Think! of the skies of the future-will we have silence or song?
What do you think of the whoopers-was killing them right or wrong?
There's no use dodging the question, in each of us lies their fate-
Will we sing a song of plenty, or forever wail "too-o-o-late?"