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.