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Rely on yourself alone, it is a common Proverb.
Here is how Aesop put it
Into credit.
The Larks make their nest
In the wheat, when it is in the blade,
That is to say around the time
When everything loves and everything swarms in the world:
Sea monsters in the depths of the wave,
Tigers in the Forests, Larks in the fields.
One however of these latter
Had let half a Spring pass by
Without tasting the pleasure of springtime loves.
At last by main force she resolved
To imitate Nature, and to be a mother again.
She built a nest, laid, brooded, and hatched
In haste; the whole went as best it could.
The wheat around ripe before the brood
Found itself strong enough still
To fly and take wing,
The Lark, agitated by a thousand diverse cares,
Goes to seek food, warns her children
To be always on the watch and stand sentinel.
If the owner of these fields
Comes with his son (as he will come), she says,
Listen well; according to what he says,
Each of us will decamp.
As soon as the Lark had left her family,
The owner of the field comes with his son.
These wheats are ripe, he says: go to our friends
Beg them that each, bringing his sickle,
Come help us tomorrow from the break of day.
Our Lark on return
Finds her brood in alarm.
One begins: He said that at dawn,
We should have his friends come tomorrow to help…
– If he said only that, replied the Lark,
Nothing presses us yet to change retreat;
But it is tomorrow that we must truly listen.
Meanwhile be cheerful; here is something to eat.
They fed, all fall asleep, the little ones and the mother.The dawn of day arrives; and friends not at all.
The Lark takes flight, the Master comes to make
His round as usual.
These wheats should not, he says, be standing.
Our friends are greatly wrong, and wrong is he who relies
On such lazy ones so slow to serve.
My son, go to our relatives
Beg them the same thing.
The terror is in the nest stronger than ever.
He said his relatives, mother, it is now time…
– No, my children sleep in peace;
Let us not move from our dwelling.
The Lark was right, for no one came.
For the third time the Master remembered
To visit his wheats. Our error is extreme,
He says, to expect from others than ourselves.
There is no better friend nor relative than oneself.
Remember this well, my son; and do you know
What must be done? We must with our family
Take each a sickle from tomorrow:
That is our shortest way, and we will finish
Our harvest when we can.
As soon as this design was known to the Lark:
This time it is good to leave, my children.
And the little ones, at the same time,
Fluttering, tumbling,
All left without trumpet.
Jean de La Fontaine
Translation generated by Poésies 123 with assistance from the deepseek-chat artificial-intelligence model.
Text published on Poésies 123: https://www.poesies123.com/en/fable-the-lark-and-her-little-ones-with-the-farmer-jean-de-la-fontaine/