“Please do,” said the lark’s wife. “Be quiet, children, and listen.”
Tricksey-Wee was very glad she happened to know a song which would please the lark’s wife, at least, whatever the lark himself might have thought of it, if he had heard it. So she sang—
“ ‘Good morrow, my lord!’ in the sky alone, Sang the lark, as the sun ascended his throne. ‘Shine on me, my lord; I only am come, Of all your servants, to welcome you home. I have flown a whole hour, right up, I swear, To catch the first shine of your golden hair!’ “ ‘Must I thank you, then,’ said the king, ‘Sir Lark, For flying so high, and hating the dark? You ask a full cup for half a thirst: Half is love of me, and half love to be first. There’s many a bird that makes no haste, But waits till I come. That’s as much to my taste. “And the king hid his head in a turban of cloud; And the lark stopped singing, quite vexed and cowed. But he flew up higher, and thought, ‘Anon, The wrath of the king will be over and gone, And his crown, shining out of its cloudy fold, Will change my brown feathers to a glory of gold.’ “So he flew, with the strength of a lark he flew. But as he rose, the cloud rose too; And not a gleam of the golden hair Came through the depth of the misty air; Till, weary with flying, with sighing sore, The strong sun-seeker could do no more. “His wings had had no chrism of gold, And his feathers felt withered and worn and old; So he quivered and sank, and dropped like a stone. And there on his nest, where he left her, alone, Sat his little wife on her little eggs, Keeping them warm with wings and legs.