What shall I sing to thee, Babe on my back?
Song of the Eagle that mates with the storm!
Hi-i-ri-i-ki! Ri-eek!
The wild gale is weeping, driven before him
To his nest on the black lone mast of the night;
Swinging, swinging, far out, high out, over the sea!
Hi-i-ri-i-ki! Ri-eek!
Thy father is Eagle-Go-High, chief of thy tribe:
Fiercest in war, wisest in council, swiftest in hunting,
Harshest and fondest in the tent of his woman;
He is my mate!

What shall I sing to thee, Babe on my back!
Song of the wind that is wanton forever!
Fleeing forever, luring and weeping, laughing and leaping forever;
Calling forever—calling—for the chase of swift wings,
For the drive and the smite of wild wings,
For the fold of strong wings,
For the sleep in warm wings.
OO-o-roo-o-rrr-ufffff-oo! Thy mother is Storm-Dancer, daughter of Winds.
What art thou, Little Chiefling, babe of my heart?

The star that I plucked from the mast of the night,
When the wings of thy father outstrove me.
Hi-i-ri-i-ki! Ri-eek!
Eagle-Go-High, this is thy son,—
He falls asleep, smiling,
To the scream of thy nesting-call.
Hi-i-ri-i-ki! Ri-i-ki! Ri-eek!