LAMBS:

O little lambs! the month is cold,

The sky is very gray;

You shiver in the misty grass

And bleat at all the winds that pass;

Wait! when I'm big — some day —

I'll build a roof to every fold.

But now that I am small, I'll pray

At mother's knee for you;

Perhaps the angels with their wings

Will come and warm you, little things;

I'm sure that, if God knew,

He'd let the lambs be born in May.