The Lark and her Young Ones with the Owner of…

"Depend upon yourself alone," / Has to a common proverb grown. / 'Tis thus confirm'd in Aesop's way: -- / The larks to build their nests are seen / Among the wheat-crops young and green; / That is to say, / What time all things, dame Nature heeding, / Betake themselves to love and breeding -- / The monstrous whales and sharks, / Beneath the briny flood, / The tigers in the wood, / And in the fields, the larks. / One she, however, of these last, / Found more than half the spring-time past / Without the taste of spring-time pleasures; / When firmly she set up her will / That she would be a mother still, / And resolutely took her measures; -- / First, got herself by Hymen match'd; / Then built her nest, laid, sat, and hatch'd. / All went as well as such things could. / The wheat-crop ripening ere the brood / Were strong enough to take their flight, / Aware how perilous their plight, / The lark went out to search for food, / And told her young to listen well, / And keep a constant sentinel. / 'The owner of this field,' said she, / 'Will come, I know, his grain to see. / Hear all he says; we little birds / Must shape our conduct by his words. ' / No sooner was the lark away, / Than came the owner with his son. / 'This wheat is ripe,' said he: 'now run / And give our friends a call / To bring their sickles all, / And help us, great and small, / To-morrow, at the break of day. ' / The lark, returning, found no harm, / Except her nest in wild alarm. / Says one, 'We heard the owner say, / Go, give our friends a call / To help, to-morrow, break of day. ' / Replied the lark, 'If that is all, / We need not be in any fear, / But only keep an open ear. / As gay as larks, now eat your victuals. -- ' / They ate and slept -- the great and littles. / The dawn arrives, but not the friends; / The lark soars up, the owner wends / His usual round to view his land. / 'This grain,' says he, 'ought not to stand. / Our friends do wrong; and so does he / Who trusts that friends will friendly be. / My son, go call our kith and kin / To help us get our harvest in. ' / This second order made / The little larks still more afraid. / 'He sent for kindred, mother, by his son; / The work will now, indeed, be done. ' / 'No, darlings; go to sleep; / Our lowly nest we'll keep. ' / With reason said; for kindred there came none. / Thus, tired of expectation vain, / Once more the owner view'd his grain. / 'My son,' said he, 'we're surely fools / To wait for other people's tools; / As if one might, for love or pelf, / Have friends more faithful than himself! / Engrave this lesson deep, my son. / And know you now what must be done? / We must ourselves our sickles bring, / And, while the larks their matins sing, / Begin the work; and, on this plan, / Get in our harvest as we can. ' / This plan the lark no sooner knew, / Than, 'Now's the time,' she said, 'my chicks; ' / And, taking little time to fix, / Away they flew; / All fluttering, soaring, often grounding, / Decamp'd without a trumpet sounding.[1]

[1]: Aesop (Aulus Gellus); Avianus.