The Bustard

The sluggish Bustard, in her foolish pate,
Vexed with her young ones' awkward flight,
Purposed to raise a brood more light,
Even though 't were illegitimate.

For this end many an egg she stole
From Partridge, Pigeon and the Kite,
And sundry birds of easy flight;
And in her nest mixed up the whole.

Long while and patiently she sat upon them;
Though some proved addled, yet, in time, the rest
With a fine brood of nurslings filled the nest;
And many a kind, of course, was found among them.

A host of birds collects, at her request,
To admire her progeny, so rare and new;
But each away with his own offspring flew,
And left poor Bustard with an empty nest.

Ye, who the ideas of other men brood over, --
Bring out your fledglings. Let us see them fly!

Then, "This, and this is mine," resounds the cry
How much belongs to you, we'll soon discover.