On the parkland trees in the pale moonlight
The boobook owl calls in the calm of the night
The little birds wake from their sleep and they hear
The voice that to them is the echo of fear,
A bird that stays hidden from the light of day
He searches the trees at night for smaller prey
A flycatcher, a silvereye or thornbill would be nice to eat
The little brown owl is a lover of meat,
The call of the boobook one cannot mistake
He calls in the night on the trees by the lake
Mopoke mopoke mopoke he repeatedly cry
And back to his hide before dawn he does fly
The moon it is full with scarcely any breeze
And the boobook owl calls in the park on the trees.
The boobook owl calls in the calm of the night
The little birds wake from their sleep and they hear
The voice that to them is the echo of fear,
A bird that stays hidden from the light of day
He searches the trees at night for smaller prey
A flycatcher, a silvereye or thornbill would be nice to eat
The little brown owl is a lover of meat,
The call of the boobook one cannot mistake
He calls in the night on the trees by the lake
Mopoke mopoke mopoke he repeatedly cry
And back to his hide before dawn he does fly
The moon it is full with scarcely any breeze
And the boobook owl calls in the park on the trees.
