In the moonlit wood where he old tree stood with its trunk all hollow and its twisted limb, alone I crept with the sky all swept by the flying clouds with their silver rims. On velvet wings I saw him glide, and with a haunted voice he cried: To-whoo, To-whoo, To-whoo

From tree near by with its arms in the sky as I looked for his mate in the woody dark, tiny squeaks from hungry beaks betrayed the nest deep in the bark. An answer came from the leafy hide , as with a haunted voice she cried: To-whoo, To-whoo, To-whoo

The murder foul, the hunting owl, then swooped and snatched his furry pray; rose in the air and flew to where his mate was still and silver grey, The young were fed and the owls with pride triumphantly together cried: To-whoo, To-whoo, To-whoo