O little lambs! the month is cold,
The sky is very grey;
You shiver in the misty grass
And bleat in all the wind 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.

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